THE 

UPTON LETTERS 



BY 

T. B. 



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G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

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1905 



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PREFACE 

Thksk letters were returned to me, shortly 
after the death of the friend to whom they were 
written, by his widow. It seems that he had 
been sorting and destroying letters and papers 
a few days before his wholly unexpected end. 
"We won't destroy these," he had said to her, 
holding the bulky packet of my letters in his 

hand ; "we will keep them together. T 

ought to publish them, and, some day, I hope he 
will." This was not, of course, a deliberate judg- 
ment ; but his sudden death, a few days later, 
gives the unconsidered wish a certain sanctity, 
and I have determined to obey it. Moreover, she 
who has the best right to decide, desires it. A 
few merely personal matters and casual details 
have been omitted ; but the main substance is 
there, and the letters are just as they were writ- 
ten. Such hurried compositions, of course, 
abound in literary shortcomings, but perhaps 
they have a certain spontaneity which more de- 
liberate writings do not always possess, I wrote 



iv Preface 

my best, frankest, and liveliest in the letters, be- 
cause I knew that Herbert would value both 
the thought and the expression of the thought. 
And, further, if it is necessary to excuse so 
speedy a publication, I feel that they are not let- 
ters which would gain by being kept. Their 
interest arises from the time, the circumstance, 
the occasion that gave them birth, from the books 
read and criticised, the educational problems dis- 
cussed ; and thus they may form a species of com- 
ment on a certain aspect of modern life, and from 
a definite point of view. But, after all, it is 
enough for me that he appreciated them, and, if 
he wished that they should go out to the world, 
well, let them go ! In publishing them I am but 
obeying a last message of love. 

T. B. 
Monk's Orchard, Upton, 
February 20, 1905, 



The Upton Letters 



The Upton Letters 

Monk's Orchard, Upton, 

January 23, 1904. 

My dkar Herbert, — I have just heard the 
disheartening news, and I write to say that I am 
sorry toto corde. I don't yet know the full extent 
of the calamity, the length of your exile, the 
place, or the conditions under which you will 
have to live. Perhaps you or Nelly can find time 
to let me have a few lines about it all? But I 
suppose there is a good side to it. I imagine 
that when the place is once fixed, you will be able 
to live a much freer life than you have of late 
been obliged to live in England, with less risk 
and less overshadowing of anxiety. If you can 
find the right region, renovabitur ut aquila 
juventus tua ; and you will be able to carry out 
some of the plans which have been so often inter- 
rupted here. Of course there will be drawbacks. 
Books, society, equal talk, the English country- 



2 The Upton Letters 

side, which you love so well, and, if I may use 
the expression, so intelligently; they will all have 
to be foregone in a measure. But fortunately 
there is no difficulty about money, and money 
will give you back some of these delights. You 
will still vSee your real friends; and they will come 
to you with the intention of giving and getting 
the best of themselves and of you, not in the 
purposeless way in which one drifts into a visit 
here. You will be able, too, to view things with 
a certain detachment — and that is a real advan- 
tage; for I have sometimes thought that your 
literary work has suffered from the variety of 
your interests, and from your being rather too 
close to them to form a philosophical view. Your 
love of characteristic points of natural scenery 
will help you. When you have once grown 
familiar with the new surroundings, you will 
penetrate the secret of their charm, as you have 
done here. You will be able, too, to live a more 
undisturbed life, not fretted by all the cross- 
currents which distract a man in his own land, 
when he has a large variety of ties. I declare I 
did not know I was so good a rhetorician; I shall 
end by convincing myself that there is no real 
happiness to be found except in expatriation! 



The Upton Letters 3 

Seriously, my dear Herbert, I do understand 
the sadness of the change; but one gets no good 
by dwelling on the darker side; there are and 
will be times, I know, of depression. When one 
lies awake in the morning, before the nerves are 
braced by contact with the wholesome day; when 
one has done a tiring piece of work, and is alone, 
and in that frame of mind when one needs occu- 
pation but yet is not brisk enough to turn to the 
work one loves; in those dreary intervals between 
one's work, when one is off with the old and not 
yet on with the new — well I know all the corners 
of the road, the shadowy cavernous places where 
the demons lie in wait for one, as they do for the 
wayfarer (do you remember?), in Bewick, who, 
desiring to rest by the roadside, finds the dingle 
all alive with ambushed fiends, homed and heavy- 
limbed, swollen with the oppressive clumsiness of 
nightmare. But you are not inexperienced or 
weak. You have enough philosophy to wait until 
the frozen mood thaws, and the old thrill comes 
back. That is one of the real compensations of 
middle age. When one is young, one imagines 
that any depression will be continuous; and one 
sees the dreary, uncomforted road winding ahead 
over bare hills, till it falls to the dark valley. But 



4 The Upton Letters 

later on one can believe that ** the roadside dells 
of rest" are there, even if one cannot see them ; 
and, after all, you have a home which goes with 
you; and it would seem to be fortunate, or to 
speak more truly, tenderly prepared, that you 
have only daughters — a son, who would have to 
go back to England to be educated, would be a 
source of anxiety. Yet I find myself even wish- 
ing that you had a son, that I might have the 
care of him over here. You don' t know the heart- 
hunger I sometimes have for young things of my 
own to watch over ; to try to guard their happi- 
ness. You would say that I had plenty of oppor- 
tunities in my profession; it is true in a sense, 
and I think I am perhaps a better schoolmaster 
for being unmarried. But these boys are not 
one's own ; they drift away ; they come back 
dutifully and affectionately to talk to their old 
tutor; and we are both of us painfully conscious 
that we have lost hold of the thread, and that the 
nearness of the tie that once existed exists no 
more. 

Well, I did not mean in this letter to begin be- 
moaning my own sorrows, but rather to try to 
help you to bear your own. Tell me as soon as 
you can what your plans are, and I will come 



The Upton Letters 5 

down and see you for the last time under the old 
conditions ; perhaps the new will be happier. 
God bless you, my old friend! Perhaps the light 
which has hitherto shone (though fitfully) on 
your life will now begin to shine through it in- 
stead; and let me add one word. My assurance 
grows firmer, from day to day, that we are in 
stronger hands than our own. It is true that I 
see things in other lives which look as if those 
hands were wantonly cruel, hard, unloving; but 
I reflect that I cannot see all the conditions; I can 
only humbly fall back upon my own experience, 
and testify that even the most daunting and hu- 
miliating things have a purifjdng effect ; and I 
can perceive enough at all events to encourage me 
to send my heart a little farther than my eyes 
and to believe that a deep and urgent love is there. 
— Ever affectionately yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, January 26, 1904. 
Dear Herbert,— So it is to be Madeira at 
present? Well, I know Madeira a little, and I 
can honestly congratulate you. I had feared it 
might be Switzerland. I could not live in Switz- 
erland. It does me good to go there, to be iced 



6 The Upton Letters 

and baked and washed clean with pure air. But 
the terrible mountains, so cold and unchanged, 
with their immemorial patience, their frozen tran- 
quillity; the high hamlets, perched on their lonely 
vShelves; the bleak pine-trees, with their indomita- 
ble strength — all these depress me. Of course 
there is much homely beauty among the lower 
slopes; the thickets, the falling streams, the 
flowers. But the grim black peaks look over 
everywhere; and there is seldom a feeling of the 
rich and comfortable peace such as one gets in 
England. Madeira is very different. I have 
been there, and must truthfully confess that it 
does not suit me altogether — the warm air, the 
paradisal luxuriance, the greenhouse fragrance, 
are not a fit setting for a blond, lymphatic man, 
who pants for Northern winds. But it will suit 
you ; and you will be one of those people, spare 
and compact as you are, who find themselves vig- 
orous and full of energy there. I have many ex- 
quisite vignettes from Madeira which linger in my 
mind. The high hill-villages, full of leafy trees ; 
the grassy downs at the top ; the droop of creep- 
ers, full of flower and fragrance, over white walls; 
the sapphire sea, under huge red cliffs. You will 
perhaps take one of those embowered Quintas 



The Upton Letters 7 

high above the town, in a garden full of shelter 
and fountains. And I am much mistaken if you 
do not find yourself in a very short time passion- 
ately attached to the place. Then the people are 
simple, courteous, unaffected, full of personal in- 
terest. Housekeeping has few diflSculties and no 
terrors. 

I can't get away for a night ; but I will come 
and dine with you one day this week, if you can 
keep an evening free. 

And one thing I will promise — when you are 
awa}', I will write to you as often as I can. I 
shall not attempt any formal letters, but I shall 
begin with anything that is in my mind, and stop 
when I feel disposed; and you must do the same. 
We won't feel bound to a?iswer each other's let- 
ters ; one wastes time over that. What I shall 
want to know is what you are thinking and 
doing, and I shall take for granted you desire the 
same. 

You will be happier, now that you know ; I 
need not add that if I can be of any use to you in 
making suggestions, it will be a real pleasure. — 
Ever yours, 

T. B. 



8 The Upton Letters 

Upton, February 3, 1904. 
My dkar HkrbkrT, — It seems ages since we 
said good-bye — yet it is not a week ago. And 
now I have been at work all day correcting exer- 
cises, teaching, talking. I have had supper with 
the boys, and I have been walking about since 
and talking to them — the nicest part of my work. 
They are at this time of the day, as a rule, in 
good spirits, charitable, sensible. What an odd 
thing it is that boys are so delightful when they 
are alone, and so tiresome (not always) when they 
are together. They seem, in public, to want to 
show their worst side, to be ashamed of being sup- 
posed to be good, or interested, or thoughtful, or 
tender-hearted. They are so afraid of seeming 
better than they are, and pleased to appear worse 
than they are. I wonder why this is ? It is the 
same more or less with most people; but one sees 
instincts at their nakedest among boys. As I go 
on in life, the one thing I desire is simplicity and 
reality ; pose is the one fatal thing. The dullest 
person becomes interesting if you feel that he is 
really himself, that he is not holding up some ab- 
surd shield or other in front of his shivering soul. 
And yet how hard it is, even when one appreci- 
ates the benefits and beauty of sincerity, to say 



The Upton Letters 9 

what one really thinks, without reference to what 
one supposes the person one is talking to would 
like or expect one to think — and to do it, too, 
without brusqueness or rudeness or self-assertion. 

Boys are generally ashamed of saying anything 
that is good about each other ; and yet they are as 
a rule intensely anxious to be popular, and pa- 
thetically unaware that the shortest cut to popu- 
larity is to see the good points in every one and 
not to shrink from mentioning them. I once had 
a pupil, a simple-minded, serene, ordinary crea- 
ture, who attained to extraordinary popularity. 
I often wondered why ; after he had left, I asked 
a boy to tell me ; he thought for a moment, and 
then he said, " I suppose, sir, it was because when 
we were all talking about other chaps — and one 
does that nearly all the time — he used to be as 
much down on them as any one else, and he 
never jawed — but he always had something nice 
to say about them, not made up, but as if it just 
came into his head." 

Well, I must stop ; I suppose you are forg- 
ing out over the Bay, and sleeping, I hope, like 
a top. There is no sleep like the sleep on a 
steamer — profound, deep, so that one wakes up 
hardly knowing where or who one is ; and in the 



lo The Upton Letters 

morning you will see the great purple league-long 
rollers. I remember them ; I generally felt very 
unwell ; but there was something tranquillising 
about them, all the same^ — and then the mysteri- 
ous steamers that used to appear alongside pitch- 
ing and tumbling, with the little people moving 
about on the decks ; and a mile away in a minute. 
Then the water in the wake, like marble, with its 
white- veined sapphire, and the hiss and smell of 
the foam ; all that is very pleasant. Good-night, 
Herbert ! — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, February 9, 1904. 
My dkar Hkrbert, — I hope you have got 
lyockhart's Life of Scott with you ; if not, I will 
send it out to you. I have been reading it lately, 
and I have a strong wish that you should do the 
same. It has not all the same value ; the earlier 
part, the account of the prosperous years, is rather 
tiresome in places. There is something bois- 
terous, undignified — even, I could think, vulgar 
— about the aims and ambitions depicted. It sug- 
gests a prosperous person, seated at a well-filled 
table, and consuming his meat with a hearty ap- 
petite. The desire to stand well with prominent 



The Upton Letters 1 1 

persons, to found a family, to take a place in the 
county, is a perfectly natural and wholesome de- 
sire ; but it is a commonplace ambition. There 
is a charm in the simplicity, the geniaUty, the 
childlike zest of the man ; but there is nothing 
great about it. Then comes the crash ; and sud- 
denly, as though a curtain drew up, one is con- 
fronted with the spectacle of an indomitable and 
unselfish soul, bearing a heavy burden with mag- 
nificent tranquillity, and settling down with 
splendid courage to an almost intolerable task. 
The energy displayed by our hero in attempting 
to write off the load of debt that hung round his 
neck is superhuman, august. We see him com- 
pleting in a single day what would take many 
writers a week to finish, and doing it day by day, 
with bereavements, sorrows, ill-health, all closing 
in upon him. The quality of the work he thus 
did matters little ; it was done, indeed, at a time 
of life when under normal circumstances he would 
probably have laid his pen down. But the 
spectacle of the man's patient energy and divine 
courage is one that goes straight to the heart. It 
is then that one realises that the earher and more 
prosperous life has all the value of contrast ; one 
recognises that here was a truly unspoiled nature ; 



12 The Upton Letters 

and that, if we can dare to look upon life as an 
educative process, the tragic sorrows that over- 
whelmed him were not the mere reversal of the 
wheel of fortune, but gifts from the very hand of 
the Father — to purify a noble soul from the dross 
that was mingled with it ; to give a great man the 
opportunity of living in a way that should furnish 
an eternal and imperishable example. 

I do not believe that in the whole of literature 
there is a more noble and beautiful document of 
its kind than the diary of these later years. The 
simplicity, the sincerity of the man stand out on 
every page. There are no illusions about himself 
or his work. He hears that Southey has been 
speaking of him and his misfortunes with tears, 
and he says plainly that such tears would be im- 
possible to himself in a parallel case ; that his own 
sympathy has always been practical rather than 
emotional ; his own tendency has been to help 
rather than to console. Again, speaking of his 
own writings, he says that he realises that if there 
is anything good about his poetry or prose, * * It is 
a hurried frankness of composition, which pleases 
soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and ac- 
tive disposition." He adds, indeed, a contempt- 
uous touch to the above, which he was great 



The Upton Letters 13 

enough to have spared : *' I have been no sigher 
in shades — no writer of 

Songs and sonnets and rustical roundelays 
Framed on fancies and whistled on reeds." 

A few days later, speaking of Thomas Campbell, 
the poet, he says that " he has suffered by being 
too careful a corrector of his work." 

That is a little ungenerous, a little complacent; 
noble and large as Scott's own unconsidered writ- 
ings are, he ought to have been aware that 
methods differ. What, for instance, could be 
more extraordinary than the contrast between 
Scott and Wordsworth — Scott with his * ' You 
know I don't care a curse about what I write"; 
and Wordsworth, whose chief reading in later 
days was his own poetry. Whenever the two are 
brought into actual juxtaposition, Wordsworth is 
all pose and self-absorption ; Scott all simplicity 
and disregard of fame. Wordsworth staying at 
Abbotsford declines to join an expedition of pleas- 
ure, and stays at home with his daughter. When 
the party return, they find Wordsworth sitting 
and being read to by his daughter, the book his 
own Excursion. A party of travellers arrive, and 
Wordsworth steals down to the chaise, to see if 



14 The Upton Letters 

there are any of his own vokimes among the books 
they have with them. When the two are to- 
gether, Scott is all courteous deference ; he quotes 
Wordsworth's poems, he pays him stately com- 
pliments, which the bard receives as a matter of 
course, with stiff, complacent bows. But, during 
the whole of the time, Wordsworth never lets fall 
a single syllable from which one could gather that 
he was aware that his host had ever put pen to 
paper. 

Yet, while one desires to shake Wordsworth to 
get some of his pomposity out of him, one half 
desires that Scott had felt a little more deeply 
the dignity of his vocation. One would wish 
to have infused Wordsworth with a little of 
Scott's unselfish simplicit}^ and to have put just 
a little stiffening into Scott. He ought to have 
felt — and he did not — that to be a great writer 
was a more dignified thing than to be a sham 
seigneur. 

But through the darkening scene, when the 
woods whisper together, and the Tweed runs 
hoarsely below, the simple spirit holds uncom- 
plaining and undaunted on his way : " I did not 
like them to think that I could ever be beaten by 
anything," he says. But at length the hand, 



The Upton Letters 15 

tired with the pen, fails, and twilight creeps upon 
the darkening mind. 

I paid a pious pilgrimage last summer, as you 
perhaps remember, to Abbotsford. I don't think 
I ever described it to you. M}^ first feeling was 
one of astonishment at the size and stateliness of 
the place, testifying to a certain imprudent pro- 
sperity. But the sight of the rooms themselves ; 
the desk, the chair, the book-lined library, the 
little staircase by which, early or late, Scott could 
steal back to his hard and solitary work ; the 
death-mask, with its pathetic smile ; the clothes, 
with hat and shoes, giving, as it were, a sense of 
the very shape and stature of the man — these 
brought the whole thing up with a strange reality. 

Of course, there is much that is pompous, 
affected, unreal about the place; the plaster beams, 
painted to look like oak ; the ugly emblazonries ; 
the cruel painted glass ; the laboriously collected 
objects — all these reveal the childish side of Scott, 
the superficial self which slipped from him so 
easily when he entered into the cloud. 

And then the sight of his last resting-place ; the 
ruined abbey, so deeply embowered in trees that 
the three dim Eildon peaks are invisible. The 
birds singing in the thickets that clothe the ruined 



i6 The Upton Letters 

cloisters — all this made a parable, and brought 
before one with an intensity of mystery the won- 
der of it all. The brief life, so full of plans for 
permanence ; the sombre valley of grief ; the quiet 
end, when with failing lips he murmured that the 
only comfort for the dying heart was the thought 
that it had desired goodness, however falteringly, 
above everything. 

I cannot describe to you how deeply all this 
affects me — with what a hunger of the heart, 
what tenderness, what admiration, what wonder. 
The very frankness of the surprise with which, 
over and over again, the brave spirit confesses 
that he does not miss the delights of life as much 
as he expected, nor find the burden as heavy as 
he had feared, is a very noble and beautiful thing. 
I can conceive of no book more likely to make a 
spirit in the grip of sorrow and failure more 
gentle, hopeful, and brave ; because it brings be- 
fore one, with quiet and pathetic dignity, the fact 
that no fame, no success, no recognition, can be 
weighed for a moment in the balance with those 
simple qualities of human nature which the hum- 
blest being may admire, win, and display. — Kver 
yours, 

T. B. 



The Upton Letters 17 

Upton, Shrove Tuesday, February i6, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — One of those incredible in- 
cidents has just happened here, an incident that 
makes one feel how little one knows of human 
beings, and that truth, in spite of the conscien- 
tious toil of Mr. H. G. Wells, does still continue 
to keep ahead of fiction. Here is the story. 
Some money is missed in a master's house ; cir- 
cumstances seem to point to its having been ab- 
stracted by one of the boys. A good-natured, 
flighty boy is suspected, absolutely without rea- 
son, as it turns out ; though he is the sort of 
boy to mislay his own books and other portable 
property to any extent, and to make no great 
difficulty under pressure of immediate need, and 
at the last moment, about borrowing some one 
else's chattels. On this occasion the small boys 
in the house, of whom he is one, solemnly accuse 
him of the theft, and the despoiled owner entreats 
that the mone)^ may be returned. He protests 
that he has not taken it. The matter comes to 
the ears of the house-master, who investigates in 
the course of the evening, and interviews the 
supposed culprit. The boy denies it again quite 
unconcernedly and frankly, goes away from the 
interview, and wandering about, finds the small 



1 8 The Upton Letters 

boys of the house assembled in one of the studies 
discussing a matter with great interest. *' What 
has happened?" says our suspected friend. 
** Have n't you heard?" says one of them; 
'* Campbell's grandmother" (Campbell is another 
of the set) " has sent him a tip of ^2." " Oh, 
has she ?" says the boy, with a smile of intense 
meaning; '* I shall have to go my rounds again.'' ^ 
This astonishing confession of his guilt is received 
with the interest it deserves, and Campbell is ad- 
vised to lock up his money, or to hand it over to 
the custody of the house-master. In the course 
of the evening, another amazing event occurs ; the 
boy whose money was stolen finds the whole of it, 
quite intact, in the pocket of his cricketing flan- 
nels, where he now remembers having put it. 
The supposed culprit is restored to favour, and 
becomes a reliable member of society. One of the 
small boys tells the matron the story of our hero's 
amazing remark on the subject, in his presence. 
The matron stares at him, bewildered, and asks 
him what made him say it. " Oh, only to rag 
them," says the boy ; " they were all so excited 
about it." '* But don't you see, you silly boy," 
says the kind old dame, '' that if the money had 
not been found, you would have been convicted 



The Upton Letters 19 

out of 3^ our own mouth of having been a thief ? " 
*' Oh yes," says the boy cheerfully ; " but I 
could n't help it — it came into my head." 

Of course this is an exceptional case ; but it il- 
lustrates a curious thing about boys — I mentioned 
it the other day— which is, their extraordinary 
willingness and even anxiety to be thought worse 
than they are. Even boys of unexceptionable 
principle will talk as if they were not only not 
particular, but positively vicious. They don't 
like aspersions on their moral character to be 
made by others, but they rejoice to blacken them- 
selves ; and not even the most virtuous boys can 
bear to be accused of virtue, or thought to be 
what is called ' 'Pi. ' ' This does not happen when 
boys are by themselves ; they will then talk unaf- 
fectedly about their principles and practice, if their 
interlocutor is also unaffected. But when they 
are together, a kind of disease of self-accusation 
attacks them. I suppose that it is the perversion 
of a wholesome instinct, the desire not to be 
thought better than they are ; but part of the ex- 
aggerated stories that one hears about the low 
moral tone of public schools arises from the fact 
that innocent boys coming to a public school in- 
fer, and not unreasonably, from the talk of their 



20 The Upton Letters 

companions that they are by no means averse 
to evil, even when, as is often the case, they are 
wholly untainted by it. 

The same thing seems to me to prevail very 
widely nowadays. The old-fashioned canting 
hypocrisy, like that of the old servant in the 
Master of Ballantrae, who, suffering under the 
effects of drink, bears himself like a Christian 
martyr, has gone out; just as the kind of pride is 
extinct against which the early Victorian books 
used to warn children, and which was manifested 
by sitting in a carriage surveying a beggar with a 
curling lip — a course of action which was invari- 
ably followed by the breaking of a bank, or by 
some mysterious financial operation involving an 
entire loss of fortune and respectability. 

Nowadays, the parable of the Pharisee and the 
publican is reversed. The Pharisee tells his 
friends that he is in reality far worse than the 
publican, while the publican thanks God that he 
is not a Pharisee. It is only, after all, a different 
kind of affectation, and perhaps even more dan- 
gerous, because it passes under the disguise of a 
virtue. We are all miserable sinners, of course ; 
but it is no encouragement to goodness if we try 
to reduce ourselves all to the same level of con- 



The Upton Letters 21 

scious corruption. The only advantage would be 
if, by our humility, we avoided censoriousness. 
Let us frankly admit that our virtues are in- 
herited, and that any one who had had our 
chances would have done as well or better than 
ourselves ; neither ought we to be afraid of ex- 
pressing our admiration of virtue, and, if neces- 
sary, our abhorrence of vice, so long as that 
abhorrence is genuine. The cure for the present 
state of things is a greater naturalness. Perhaps 
it would end in a certain increase of priggishness ; 
but I honestly confess that nowadays our horror 
of priggishness, and even of seriousness, has 
grown out of all proportion; the command not to 
be a prig has almost taken its place in the Deca- 
logue. After all, priggishness is often little more 
than a failure in tact, a breach of good manners ; 
it is priggish to be superior, and it is vulgar to let 
a consciousness of superiority escape you. But it 
is not priggish to be virtuous, or to have a high 
artistic standard, or to care more for masterpieces 
of literature than for second-rate books, any more 
than it is priggish to be rich or well-connected. 
The priggishness comes in when you begin to 
compare yourself with others, and to draw distinc- 
tions. The Pharisee in the parable was a prig ; 



22 The Upton Letters 

and just as I have known priggish hunting men, 
and priggish golfers, and even priggish card- 
players, so I have known people who were prig- 
gish about having a low standard of private 
virtue, because they disapproved of people whose 
standard was higher. The only cure is frankness 
and simplicity ; and one should practise the art of 
talking simply and directly among congenial peo- 
ple of what one admires and believes in. 

How I run on! But it is a comfort to write 
about these things to some one who will under- 
stand ; to ** cleanse the stuff 'd bosom of the 
perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart." By 
the way, how careless the repetition of '' stufiPd " 
** stuff" is in that line! And yet it can't be unin- 
tentional, I suppose? 

I enjoy your letters very much ; and I am glad 
to hear that you are beginning to " take interest," 
and are already feeling better. Your views of the 
unchangeableness of personality are very surpris- 
ing ; but I must think them over for a little ; I 
will write about them before long. Meanwhile, 
my love to you all. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 



The Upton Letters 23 

Upton, February 25, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — You ask what I have been 
reading. Well, I have been going through New- 
man's Apologia for the twentieth time, and as 
usual have fallen completely under the magical 
spell of that incomparable style; its perfect lucid- 
ity, showing the very shape of the thought within, 
its simplicity (not, in Newman's case, I think, the 
result of labour, but of pure instinctive grace), 
its appositeness, its dignity, its music. I oscil- 
late between supreme contentment as a reader, 
and envious despair as a writer ; it fills one's mind 
up slowly and richly, as honey fills a vase from 
some gently tilted bowl. There is no sense of 
elaborateness about the book ; it was written 
swiftly and easily out of a full heart ; then it is 
such a revelation of a human spirit, a spirit so in- 
nocent and devoted and tender, and, moreover, 
charged with a sweet naive egotism as of a child. 
It was written, as Newman himself said, in tears ; 
but I do not think they were tears of bitterness, 
but a half-luxurious sorrow, the pathos of the past 
and its heavinesses, viewed from a quiet haven. I 
have no sympathy whatever with the intellectual 
attitude it reveals, but as Roderick Hudson says, 
J don't always heed the sense: it is indeed a 



24 The Upton Letters 

somewhat melancholy spectacle of a beautiful 
mind converted in reality by purely aesthetic con- 
siderations, by the dignity, the far-off, holy, and 
venerable associations of the great Church which 
drew him quietly in, while all the time he is under 
the impression that it is a logical clue which he is 
following. And what logic! leaping lightly over 
difl&cult places, taking flowery by-paths among 
the fields, the very stairs on which he treads oased 
on all kinds of wide assumptions and unverifiable 
hypotheses. Then it is distressing to see his hor- 
ror of Liberalism, of speculation, of development, 
of all the things that constitute the primal essence 
of the very religion that he blindly followed. One 
cannot help feeling that had Newman been a 
Pharisee, he would have been, with his love of 
precedent, and antiquity, and tradition, one of 
the most determined and deadly opponents of the 
spirit of Christ. For the spirit of Christ is the 
spirit of freedom, of elasticity, of unconvention- 
ality. Newman would have upheld in the San- 
hedrim with pathetic and exquisite eloquence that 
it was not time to break with the old, that it was 
miserable treachery to throw over the ancient 
safeguards of faith, to part with the rich inheri- 
tance of the national faith, delivered by Abraham 



The Upton Letters 25 

and Moses to the saints. Newman was a true 
fanatic, and the most dangerous of fanatics, be- 
cause his character was based on innocence and 
tenderness and instinctive virtue. It is rather 
pathetic than distressing to see Newman again 
and again deluded by the antiquity of some petty 
human logician into believing his utterance to be 
the very voice of God. The struggle with New- 
man was not the struggle of faith with scepticism, 
but the struggle between two kinds of loyalty, the 
personal loyalty to his own past and his own 
friends and the Church of his nativity, and the 
loyalty to the infinitely more ancient and vener- 
able tradition of the Roman Church. It was, as 
I have said, an aesthetic conversion ; he had the 
mind of a poet, and the particular kind of beauty 
which appealed to him was not the beauty of na- 
ture or art, but the beauty of old tradition and the 
far-off dim figures of saints and prelates reaching 
back into the dark and remote past. 

He had, too, the sublime egotism of the poet. 
His own salvation — " Shall I be safe if I die to- 
night?" — that, he confesses, was the thought 
which eventually outweighed all others. He had 
little of the priestly hunger to save souls ; the 
way in which others trusted him, confided in him, 



26 The Upton Letters 

watched his movements, followed him, was al- 
ways something of a terror to him, and yet in an- 
other mood it ministered to his self-absorption. 
He had not the stern sense of being absolutely 
in the right, which is the characteristic of the 
true leaders of men, but he had a deep sense of 
his own importance, combined with a perfectly 
real sense of weakness and humility, which even 
disguised, I would think, his own egotism from 
himself. 

Again his extraordinary forensic power, his 
verbal logic, his exquisite lucidity of statement, 
all these concealed from him, as they have 
concealed from others, his lack of mental inde- 
pendence. He had an astonishing power of 
submitting to his imagination, a power of believ- 
ing the impossible, because the exercise of faith 
seemed to him so beautiful a virtue. It is not a 
case of a noble mind overthrown, but of the vic- 
tory of a certain kind of poetical feeling over all 
rational inquiry. 

To revert to Newman's literary genius, he 
seems to me to be one of the few masters of 
English prose. I used to think, in old university 
days, that Newman's style was best tested by the 
fact that if one had a piece of his writing to turn 



The Upton Letters 27 

into Latin prose, the more one studied it, turned 
it over, and penetrated it, the more masterly did 
it become ; because it was not so much the ex- 
pression of a thought as the thought itself taking 
shape in a perfectly pure medium of language. 
Bunyan had the same gift ; of later authors, Rus- 
kin had it very strongly, and Matthew Arnold in 
a lesser degree. There is another species of 
beautiful prose, the prose of Jeremy Taylor, of 
Pater, even of Stevenson ; but this is a slow and 
elaborate construction, pinched and pulled this 
way and that ; and it is like some gorgeous pic- 
ture, of stately persons in seemly and resplendent 
dress, with magnificently wrought backgrounds 
of great buildings and curious gardens. But the 
work of Newman and of Ruskin is a white art, 
like the art of sculpture. 

I find myself every year desiring and admiring 
this kind of lucidity and purity more and more. 
It seems to me that the only function of a writer 
is to express obscure, difficult, and subtle thoughts 
easily, but there are writers, like Browning and 
George Meredith, who seem to hold it a virtue to 
express simple thoughts obscurely. Such writers 
have a wide vogue, because so many people do 
not value a thought unless they can feel a certain 



28 The Upton Letters 

glow of satisfaction in having grasped it ; and to 
have disentangled a web of words, and to find the 
bright thing lying within, gives them a pleasing 
feeling of conquest, and, moreover, stamps the 
thought in their memory. But such readers have 
not the root of the matter in them ; the true atti- 
tude is the attitude of desiring to apprehend, to 
progress, to feel. The readers who delight in ob- 
scurity, to whom obscurity seems to enhance the 
value of the thing apprehended, are mixing with 
the intellectual process a sort of acquisitive and 
commercial instinct very dear to the British heart. 
These bewildering and bewildered Browning so- 
cieties, who fling themselves upon Sordello, are 
infected unconsciously with a virtuous craving for 
' * taking higher ground. ' ' Sordello contains many 
beautiful things, but by omitting the necessary 
steps in argument, and by speaking of one thing 
allusively in terms of another, and by a profound 
desultoriness of thought, the poet produces a 
blurred and tangled impression. The beauties of 
Sordello would not lose by being expressed 
coherently and connectedly. 

This is the one thing that I try with all my 
might to impress on boys ; that the essence of 
all style is to say what you mean as forcibly as 



The Upton Letters 29 

possible ; the bane of classical teaching is that 
the essence of successful composition is held to be 
to ' ' get in ' ' words and phrases ; it is not a bad 
training, so long as it is realised to be onl}^ a 
training, in obtaining a rich and flexible vocabu- 
lary, so that the writer has a choice of words and 
the right word comes at call. But this is not 
made clear in education, and the result on many 
minds is that they suppose that the essence of 
good writing is to search diligently for sparkling 
words and sonorous phrases, and then to patch 
them into a duller fabric. 

But I stray from my point : all paths in a 
schoolmaster's mind lead out upon the educational 
plain. 

All that you tell me of your new surroundings 
is intensely interesting. I am thankful that you 
feel the characteristic charm of the place, and that 
the climate seems to suit you. You say nothing 
of your work ; but I suppose that you have had 
no time as yet. The mere absorbing of new im- 
pressions is a fatiguing thing, and no good work 
can be done until a scene has become familiar. I 
will discharge your commissions punctually ; 
don't hesitate to tell me what you want. I don't 
do it from a sense of duty, but it is a positive 



30 The Upton Letters 

pleasure for me to have anything to do for you. 
I long for letters ; as soon as possible send me 
photographs, and not merely inanimate photo- 
graphs of scenes and places, but be sure that you 
make a part of them yourself. I want to see you 
standing, sitting, reading in the new house ; and 
give me an exact and detailed account of your 
day, please ; the food you eat, the clothes you 
wear; you know my insatiable appetite for trifles. 
— Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, March 5, 1904. 
My dkar Herbert, — I have been thinking 
over your last letter ; and by the merest chance I 
stumbled yesterday on an old diary ; it was in 
1890— a time, do you remember, when our paths 
had drifted somewhat apart; you had just married, 
and I find a rather bitter entry, which it amuses 
me to tell you of now, to the effect that the mar- 
riage of a friend, which ought to give one a new 
friend, often simply deprives one of an old one — 
" nee earns csque nee super stes i?iteger,'' I add. 
Then I was, I suppose, hopelessly absorbed in m}' 
profession ; it was at the time when I had just 
taken a boarding-house, and suffered much from 



The Upton Letters 31 

the dejection which arises from feeling unequal to 
the new claims. 

It amuses me now to think that I could ever 
have thought of losing your friendship ; and it 
was only temporary ; it was only that we were 
fully occupied ; you had to learn camaraderie with 
your wife, for want of which one sees dryness 
creep into married lives, when the first divine 
ardours of passion have died away, and when life 
has to be lived in the common light of day. Well, 
all that soon adjusted itself; and then I, too, 
found in your wife a true and congenial friend, so 
that I can honestly say that your marriage has 
been one of the most fortunate events of my 
hfe. 

But that was not what I meant to write to you 
about ; the point is this. You say that person- 
ality is a stubborn thing. It is indeed. I find 
myself reflecting and considering how much one's 
character really changes as life goes on ; in read- 
ing this diary of fourteen years ago, though I 
have altered in some superficial respects, I was 
confronted with my unalterable self. I have ac- 
quired certain aptitudes ; I have learned, for in- 
stance, to understand boys better, to sympathise 
with them, to put myself in their place, to manage 



32 The Upton Letters 

them. I don't think I could enunciate my tech- 
nique, such as it is. If a young master, just en- 
tering upon the work of a boarding-house, asked 
my advice, I could utter several maxims v^hich 
he would believe (and rightly) to be the flattest 
and most obvious truisms ; but the value of them 
to me is that they are deduced from experience, 
and not stated as assumptions. The whole secret 
lies in the combination of them, the application 
of them to a particular case ; it is not that one 
sees a thing differently, but that one knows in- 
stinctively the sort of thing to say, the kind of line 
to pursue, the kind of statement that appeals to a 
boy as sensible and memorable, the sort of precau- 
tions to take, the delicate adjustment of principles 
to a particular case, and so forth. It is, I sup- 
pose, something like the skill of an artist; he does 
not see nature more clearly, if indeed as clearly, 
as he did when he began, but he knows better 
what kind of stroke and what kind of tint will 
best produce the effect which he wishes to record. 
Of course, both artist and schoolmaster get man- 
nerised; and I should be inclined to say in the 
latter case that a schoolmaster's success (in the 
best sense) depends almost entirely upon his be- 
ing able to arrive at sound principles and at the 



The Upton Letters 33 

same time to avoid mannerism in applying them. 
For instance, it is of no use to hold up for a boy's 
consideration a principle which is quite outside 
his horizon ; what one has to do is to try and give 
him a principle which is just a little ahead of his 
practice, which he can admire and also believe to 
be within his reach. 

Besides this experience which I have acquired, 
I have acquired a similar experience in the direc- 
tion of teaching — ^I know now the sort of state- 
ment which arrests the attention and arouses the 
interest of boys ; I know how to put a piece of 
knowledge so that it appears both intelligible and 
also desirable to acquire. 

Then I have learned, in literary matters, the art 
of expression to a certain extent. I can speak to 
you with entire frankness and unaffectedness, and 
I will say that I am conscious that I can now ex- 
press lucidly, and to a certain extent attractively, 
an idea. My deficiency is now in ideas and not 
in the power of expressing them. I have quality 
though not quantity. It amuses me to read this 
old diary and see how impossible I found it to 
put certain thoughts into words. 

But apart from these definite acquirements, I 
cannot see that my character has altered in the 



34 The Upton Letters 

smallest degree. I detect the same little, hard, 
repellent core of self, sitting enthroned, cold, un- 
changing, and unchanged, " like a toad within a 
stone," to borrow Rossetti's great simile. I see 
exactly the same weaknesses, the same pitiful 
ambitions, the same faults. I have learned, I 
think, to conceal them a little better ; but they 
are not eradicated, nor even modified. Even 
with regard to their concealment, I have a terrible 
theory. I believe that the faults of which one is 
conscious, which one admits, and even the faults 
of which one faintly suspects oneself, and yet 
supposes that one conceals from the world at 
large, are the very faults that are absolutely 
patent to every one else. If one dimly suspects 
that one is a liar, a coward, or a snob, and grate- 
fully believes that one has not been placed in a 
position which inevitably reveals these character- 
istics in their full nakedness, one may be fairly 
certain that other people know that one is so 
tainted. 

The discouraging point is that one is not simi- 
larly conscious of one's virtues. I take for 
granted that I have some virtues, because I see 
that most of the people whom I meet have some 
sprinkling of them, but I declare that I am quite 



The Upton Letters 35 

unable to say what they are. A fault is patent 
and unmistakable. The old temptation comes 
upon one, and one yields as usual ; but with one's 
virtues, if they ever manifest themselves, one's 
own feeling is that one might have done better. 
Moreover, if one tries deliberately to take stock 
of one's good points, they seem to be only natural 
and instinctive ways of behaving ; to which no 
credit can possibly attach, because by tempera- 
ment one is incapable of acting otherwise. 

Another melancholy fact which I believe to be 
true is this — that the only good work one does is 
work which one finds easy and likes. I have one 
or two patiently acquired virtues which are not 
natural to me, such as a certain methodical way 
of dealing with business ; but I never find myself 
credited with it by others, because it is done, I 
suppose, painfully and with effort, and therefore 
unimpressivel3^ 

I look round, and the same phenomenon meets 
me everywhere. I do not know any instance 
among my friends where I can trace any radical 
change of character. * ' Sicui erat in principio et 
71U71C et seynper et in scBcula scsculorum.'' 

Indeed the only line upon which improvement 
is possible seems to me to be this — that a man 



3^ The Upton Letters 

shall definitely commit himself to a course of life 
in which he shall be compelled to exercise virtues 
which are foreign to his character, and anj^ lapses 
of which will be penalised in a straightforward, 
professional way. If a man, for instance, is irri- 
table, impatient, unpunctual, let him take up 
some line where he is bound to be professionally 
bland, patient, methodical. That would be the 
act of a philosopher ; but, alas, how few of us 
choose our profession from philosophical motives! 

And even so I should fear that the tendencies 
of temperament are only temporarily imprisoned, 
and not radically cured; after all, it fits in with 
the Darwinian theory. The bird of paradise, 
condemned to live in a country of marshes, cannot 
hope to become a heron. The most he can hope 
is that, by meditating on the advantages which 
a heron would enjoy, and by pressing the same 
consideration on his offspring, the time may come 
in the dim procession of years when the beaks of 
his descendants will grow long and sharp, their 
necks pliant, their legs attenuated. 

And anyhow, one is bound in honour to have a 
try ; and the hopefulness of my creed (you may be 
puzzled to detect it) lies in the fact that one has a. 
sense of honour about it all : that one's faults are 



The Upton Letters 37 

repugnant, and that missing virtues are desirable 
— possunt quia posse videntur ! 

Thank you for the photographs. I begin to 
realise your house ; but I want some interiors as 
well ; and let me have the view from your terrace, 
though I dare say it is only sea and sky. — Ever 
yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, March 15, 1904. 

Dkar HkrbKRT, — You say I am not ambitious 
enough ; well, I wish I could make up my mind 
clearly on the subject of ambition ; it has been 
brought before me rather acutely lately. A post 
here has just fallen vacant — a post to which I 
should have desired to succeed. I have no doubt 
that if I had frankly expressed my wishes on the 
subject, if I had even told a leaky, gossipy col- 
league what I desired, and begged him to keep 
it to himself, the thing would have got out, and 
the probability is that the post would have been 
offered to me. But I held my tongue, not, I con- 
fess, from any very high motive, but merely from 
a natural dislike of being importunate — it does 
not seem to me consistent with good manners. 

Well, I made no sign ; and another man was 



38 The Upton Letters 

appointed. I have no doubt that a man of the 
world would say frankly that I was a fool, and, 
though I am rather inclined to agree with him, I 
don't think I could have acted otherwise. 

I am inclined to encourage ambition of every 
kind among the boys. I think it is an appro- 
priate virtue for their age and temperament. It 
is not a Christian virtue ; for it is certain that, if 
one person succeeds in an ambitious prospect, 
there must be a dozen who are disappointed. But 
though I don't approve of it on abstract grounds, 
yet I think it is so tremendous a motive for ac- 
tivity and keenness that it seems to me that boys 
are the better for it. I don't believe that in edu- 
cation the highest motive is always the best ; in- 
deed, the most effective motive, in dealing with 
immature minds, is the thing which we have to 
discover and use. 

I mean, for instance, that I think it is probably 
more eflfective to say to a boy who is disposed to 
be physically indolent, "You have a chance of 
getting your colours this half, and I should like 
to see you get them," than to say, '* I don't want 
you to think about colours. I want you to play 
football for the glory of God, because it makes 
you into a stronger, more wholesome, more 



The Upton Letters 39 

cheerful man." It seems to me that boys should 
learn for themselves that there are often better 
and bigger reasons for having done a thing than 
the reason that made them do it. 

What makes an object seem desirable to a boy 
is that others desire to have it too, and that he 
should be the fortunate person to get it. I don't 
see how the sense of other people's envy and dis- 
appointment can be altogether subtracted from 
the situation — it certainly is one of the elements 
which makes success seem desirable to many 
boys — though a generous nature will not indulge 
the thought. 

But I am equally sure that, as one gets older, 
one ought to put aside such thoughts altogether. 
That one ought to trample down ambitious desires 
and even hopes. That glory, according to the 
old commonplace, ought to follow and not to be 
followed. 

I think one ought to pursue one's own line, to 
do one's own business to the best of one's ability, 
and leave the rest to God. If He means one to be 
in a big place, to do a big work, it will be clearly 
enough indicated ; and the only chance of doing 
it in a big way is to be simple-minded, sincere, 
generous, and contented. 



40 The Upton Letters 

The worst of that theory is this. One sees peo- 
ple in later life who have just missed big chances ; 
some over-subtle delicacy of mind, some untimely 
reticence or frankness, some indolent hanging- 
back, some scrupulousness, has just checked them 
from taking a bold step forward when it was 
needed. And one sees them with large powers, 
noble capacities, wise thoughts, relegated to the 
crowd of unconsidered and inconsiderable persons 
whose opinion has no weight, whose suggestions 
have no efifectiveness. Are they to be blamed ? 
Or has one humbly and faithfully to take it as an 
indication that they are just not fit, from some 
secret weakness, some fibre of feebleness, to take 
the tiller ? 

I am speaking with entire sincerity when I say 
to you that I think I am myself rather cast in that 
mould. I have alwa5^s just missed getting what 
used to be called ' * situations of dignity and 
emolument," and I have often been condoled with 
as the person who ought to have had them. 

Well, I expect that this is probably a very 
wholesome discipline for me, but I cannot say 
that it is pleasant, or that use has made it easier. 

The worst of it is that I have an odd mixture 
of practicality and mysticism within me, and I 



The Upton Letters 41 

have sometimes thought that one has damaged 
the other. My mysticism has pulled me back 
when I ought to have taken a decided step, urg- 
ing,** Leave it to God" — and then, when I have 
failed to get what I wanted, my mysticism has 
failed to comfort me, and the practical side of me 
has said, ** The decided step was what God clearly 
indicated to you was needed ; and you were lazy 
and would not take it." 

I have a highly practical friend, the most ab- 
solutely and admirably worldly person I know. 
In talk, he sometimes lets fall very profound max- 
ims. We were talking the other day about this 
very point, and he said musingly, " It is a very 
good rule in this world not to ask for anything 
unless you are pretty sure to get it." That is the 
cream of the worldly attitude. Such a man is not 
going to make himself tiresome by importunity. 
He knows what he desires, he works for it, and, 
when the moment comes, he just gives the little 
push that is needed, and steps into his kingdom. 

That is exactly what I cannot do. It is not a 
sign of high-mindedness, for I am by nature 
greedy, acquisitive, and ambitious. But it is a 
want of firmness, I suppose. Anyhow, there it 
is. and one cannot alter one's temperament. 



42 The Upton Letters 

The conclusion which I come to for myself and 
for all like-minded persons — not a very happy 
class, I fear — is that one should absolutely steel 
oneself against disappointment, not allow oneself 
to indulge in pleasing visions, not form plans 
or count chickens, but try to lay hold of the 
things which do bring one tranquillity, the simple 
joys of ordinary and uneventful life. One may 
thus arrive at a certain degree of independence. 
And though the heart may ache a little at the 
chances missed, yet one may console oneself by 
thinking that it is happier not to realise an am- 
bition and be disappointed, than to realise it and 
be disappointed. 

It all comes from over-estimating one's own 
powers, after all. If one is decently humble, no 
disappointment is possible ; and such little suc- 
cesses as one does attain are like gleams of sun- 
light on a misty day. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, March 25, 1904. 

Dkar HkrberT, — You are quite right about 
conventionality in education. 

One of my perennial preoccupations here is how 
to encourage originality and independence among 



The Upton Letters 43 

my boys. The great danger of public-school 
education nowadays, as you say, is the develop- 
ment of a type. It is not at all a bad type in 
many ways ; the best specimens of the public- 
school type are young men who are generous, 
genial, unembarrassed, courageous, sensible, and 
active; but our system all tends to level character, 
and I do not feel sure whether it levels it up or 
levels it down. In old days, the masters concerned 
themselves with the work of the boys only, and 
did not trouble their heads about how the boys 
amused themselves out of school. Vigorous boys 
organised games for themselves, and indolent 
boys loafed. Then it came home to school author- 
ities that there was a good deal of danger in the 
method ; that lack of employment was an unde- 
sirable thing. Thereupon work was increased, 
and, at the same time, the masters laid hands 
upon athletics and organised them. Side by 
side with this came a great increase of wealth 
and leisure in England, and there sprang up that 
astonishing and disproportionate interest in ath- 
letic matters, which is nowadays a real problem 
for all sensible men. But the result of it all has 
been that there has grown up a stereotyped code 
among the boys as to what is the right thing to 



44 The Upton Letters 

do. They are far less wilful and undisciplined 
than they used to be ; they submit to work, as a 
necessary evil, far more cheerfully than they used 
to do ; and they base their ideas of social success 
entirely on athletics. And no wonder ! They 
find plenty of masters who are just as serious 
about games as they are themselves ; who spend 
all their spare time in looking on at games, and 
discuss the athletic prospects of particular boys in 
a tone of perfectly unaffected seriousness. The 
only two regions which masters have not organ- 
ised are the intellectual and moral regions. The 
first has been tacitly and inevitably extruded. A 
good deal more work is required from the boys, 
and unless a boy's ability happens to be of a defin- 
ite academical order — in which case he is well 
looked after — there is no loop-hole through which 
intellectual interest can creep in. A boy's time 
is so much occupied by definite work and definite 
games that there is neither leisure nor, indeed, 
vigour left to follow his own pursuits. Life is 
lived so much more in public that it becomes in- 
creasingly difficult for sets to exist; small associa- 
tions of boys with literary tastes used to do a 
good deal in the direction of fostering the germs 
of intellectual life ; the net result is, that there is 



The Upton Letters 45 

now far less interest abroad in intellectual things, 
and such interests as do exist, exist in a solitary 
way, and generally mean an intellectual home in 
the background. 

In the moral region, I think we have much to 
answer for ; there is a code of morals among boys 
which, if it is not actively corrupting, is at least 
undeniably low. The standard of purity is low ; 
a vicious boy does n't find his vicious tendencies 
by any means a bar to social success. Then the 
code of honesty is low ; a boy who is habitually 
dishonest in the matter of work is not in the least 
reprobated. I do not mean to say that there are 
not many boys who are both pure-minded and 
honest; but they treat such virtues as a secret 
preference of their own, and do not consider that 
it is in the least necessary to interfere with the 
practice of others, or even to disapprove of it. 
And then comes the perennial difficulty of school- 
boy honour ; the one unforgivable offence is to 
communicate anything to masters ; and an in- 
nocent-minded boy whose natural inclination to 
purity gave way before perpetual temptation and 
even compulsion might be thought to have erred, 
but would have scanty, if any, expression of either 
sympathy or pity from other boys ; while if he 



4^ The Upton Letters 

breathed the least hint of his miserable position 
to a master and the fact came out, he would be 
universally scouted. 

This is a horrible fact to contemplate ; yet it 
cannot be cured by enactment, only from within. 
It is strange that in this respect it is entirelj^ un- 
like the code of the world. No girl or woman 
would be scouted for appealing to police protec- 
tion in similar circumstances ; no man would be 
required to submit to violence or even to burglary ; 
no reprobation would fall upon him if he appealed 
to the law to help him. 

Is it not possible to encourage something of this 
feeling in a school ? Is it not possible, without 
violating schoolboy honour, which is in many 
ways a fine and admirable thing, to allow the pos- 
sibility of an appeal to protection for the young 
and weak against vile temptations ? It seems to 
me that it would be best if we could get the boys 
to organise such a system among themselves. 
But to take no steps to arrive at such an organisa- 
tion, and to leave matters severely alone, is a very 
dark responsibility to bear. 

It is curious to note that in the matter of bully- 
ing and cruelty, which used to be so rife at 
schools, public opinion among boys does seem to 



The Upton Letters 47 

have undergone a change. The vice has practi- 
cally disappeared, and the good feeling of a school 
would be generally against any case of gross 
bullying ; but the far more deadly and insidious 
temptation of impurity has, as far as one can 
learn, increased. One hears of simply heart-rend- 
ing cases where a boy dare not even tell his 
parents of what he endures. Then, too, a bo3^'s 
relations will tend to encourage him to hold out, 
rather than to invoke a master's aid, because they 
are afraid of the boy falling under the social ban. 

This is the heaviest burden a schoolmaster has 
to bear ; to be responsible for his boys, and to be 
held responsible, and yet to be probably the very 
last person to whom the information of what is 
happening can possibly come. 

One great difficulty seems to be that boys will, 
as a rule, combine only for purposes of evil. In 
matters of virtue, a boy has to act for himself; 
and I confess, too, with a sigh, that a set of vir- 
tuous boys banding themselves together to resist 
evil and put it down has an alarmingly priggish 
sound. 

The most that a man can do at present, it 
seems to me, is to have good sensible servants ; to 
be vigilant and discreet ; to try and cultivate a 



48 The Upton Letters 

paternal relation with all his bo3^s ; to try and 
make the bigger boys feel some responsibility in 
the matter ; but the worst of it is that the subject 
is so unpleasant that many masters dare not 
speak of it at all ; and excuse themselves by say- 
ing that they don't want to put ideas into boys' 
heads. I cannot conscientiously believe that a 
man who has been through a big public school 
himself can honestly be afraid of that. But we all 
seem to be so much afraid of each other, of public 
opinion, of possible unpopularity, that we find 
excuses for letting a painful thing alone. 

But to leave this part of the subject, which is 
often a kind of nightmare to me, and to return to 
my former point ; I do honestly think it a great 
misfortune that we tend to produce a type. It 
seems to me that to aim at independence, to know 
one's own mind, to form one's own ideas — liberty, 
in short — is one of the most sacred duties in life. 
It is not only a luxury in which a few can in- 
dulge, it ought to be a quality which every one 
should be encouraged to cultivate. I declare that 
it makes me very sad sometimes to see these well- 
groomed, well-mannered, rational, manly boys all 
taking the same view of things, all doing the 
same things, smiling politely at the eccentricity of 



The Upton Letters 49 

any one who finds matter for serious interest in 
books, in art, or music ; all splendidly reticent 
about their inner thoughts, with a courteous 
respect for the formalities of religion and the 
formalities of work ; perfectly correct, perfectly 
complacent, with no irregularities or angular 
preferences of their own ; with no admiration for 
anything but athletic success, and no contempt 
for anything but originality of ideas. They are 
so nice, so gentlemanly, so easy to get on with ; 
and yet, in another region, they are so dull, so 
unimaginative, so narrow-minded. They cannot 
all, of course, be intellectual or cultivated ; but 
they ought to be more tolerant, more just, more 
wise. They ought to be able to admire vigour 
and enthusiasm in every department instead of in 
one or two; and it is we who ought to make them 
feel so, and we have already got too much to do 
— though I am afraid that you will think, after 
reading this vast document, that I, at all events, 
have plenty of spare time. But it is not the case ; 
only the end of the half is at hand ; we have fin- 
ished our regular work, and I have done my re- 
ports, and am waiting for a paper. When you 
next hear, I shall be a free man. I shall spend 
Easter quietly here ; but I have so much to do 

4 



50 The Upton Letters 

and clear off that I probably shall not be able to 
write until I have set off on my travels. — Ever 
yours, 

T. B. 

Tun Red Dragon, Compton Fkreday, 

April lo, 1904. 

Dear Hkrbkrt, — I was really too busy to 
write last week, but I am going to try and make 
up for it. This letter is going to be a diary. Ex- 
pect more of it. — T. B. 

April yth. — I find myself, after all, compelled 
to begin my walking tour alone. At the last 
moment, Murchison has thrown me over. His 
father is ill, and he is compelled to spend his holi- 
days at home. I do not altogether like to set off 
by myself, but it is too late to try and arrange for 
another companion. I had rather, however, go 
by myself than with some one who is not abso- 
lutely congenial. One requires on these occasions 
to have a companion whose horizon is the same as 
one's own. I dare say I could find an old friend, 
who is not also a colleague, to go with me, but 
it would mean a certain amount of talk to bring 
us into line. Then, too, I have had a very busy 
term ; besides my form work, I have had a good 



The Upton Letters 5^ 

deal of extra teaching to do with the Army Class 
boys. It is interesting work, for the boys are in- 
terested, not in the subjects so much, as in mas- 
tering them for examination purposes. Yet it 
matters little how the interest is obtained, as long 
as the boys believe in the usefulness of what they 
are doing. But the result is that I am tired out. 
I have lived with boys from morning to night, 
and my spare time has been taken up with work- 
ing at my subjects. I have had hardly any ex- 
ercise, and but a scanty allowance of sleep. Now 
I mean to have both. I shall spend my days in 
the open air, and I shall sleep, I hope, like a top, 
at nights. Gradually I shall recover m}^ power of 
enjoyment ; for the worst of such weeks as I have 
been passing through is that thej^ leave one 
drearj^ and jaded ; one finds oneself in that dull 
mood when one cannot even realise beautiful 
things. I hear a thrush sing in a bush, or the 
sunset flames broadlj^ behind the elms, and I say 
to myself, *' That is very beautiful if only I could 
feel it to be so ! " Boys are exhausting com- 
panions — they are so restless, so full-blooded, so 
pitilessly indifferent, so desperately interested in 
the narrow round of school life ; and I have the 
sort of temperament that will efface itself to any 



52 The Upton Letters 

extent, if only the people that I am concerned 
with will be content. I suppose it is a feeble 
trait, and that the best schoolmasters have a mag- 
netic influence over boys which makes the boys 
interested in the master's subjects, or at least 
hypnotises them into an appearance of interest. 
I cannot do that. It is like a leaden weight upon 
me if I feel that a class is bored ; the result is that 
I arrive at the same end in my own way. I have 
learned a kind of sympathy with boys ; I know 
by instinct what will interest them, or how to put 
a tiresome thing in an interesting way. 

But I shudder to think how sick I am of it all! 
I want a long bath of silence and recollection and 
repose. I want to fill my cistern again with my 
own thoughts and my own dreams, instead of 
pumping up the muddy waters of irrigation. I 
don't think my colleagues are like that. I sat 
with half a dozen of them last night at supper. 
They were full of all they meant to do. Two of 
the most energetic were going off to play golf, 
and the chief pleasure of the place they were go- 
ing to was that it was possible to get a round on 
Sundays; they were going to fill the evening with 
bridge, and one of them said with heartfelt satis- 
faction, "I am only going to take two books away 



The Upton Letters 53 

with me— one on golf and the other on bridge— 
and I am going to cure some of my radical 
faults." I thought to myself that if he had fore- 
borne to mention the subjects of his books, one 
might have supposed that they would be a 
Thomas-a-Kempis and a Taylor's Holy Living, 
and then how well it would have seemed! Two 
more were going for a rapid tour abroad in a 
steamer chartered for assistant masters. That 
seemed to me to be almost more depressing. 
They were going to ancient historical places, full 
of grave and beautiful associations ; places to go 
to, it seemed to me, with some single like-minded 
associate, places to approach with leisurely and 
untroubled mind, with no feeling of a programme 
or a time-table— and least of all in the company 
of busy professional people with an academical 
cicerone. 

Still, I suppose that this is true devotion to 
one's profession. They will be able, they think, 
to discourse easily, and, God help us, pictur- 
esquely about what they have seen, to intersperse 
a Thucydides lesson with local colour, and to de- 
scribe the site of the temple of Delphi to boys be- 
ginning Eumenides. It is very right and proper, 
j)o doubt, but it produces in me a species of mental 



54 The Upton Letters 

nausea to think of the conditions under which 
these impressions will be absorbed. The arrange- 
ments for luncheon, the brisk interchange of 
shop, the cheery comments of fellow-tradesmen, 
the horrible publicity and banality of the whole 
affair! 

My two other colleagues were going, one to 
spend a holiday at Brighton — which he said was 
very bracing at Kaster, adding that he expected 
to fall in with some fellows he knew. They will 
all stroll on the Parade, smoke cigarettes to- 
gether, and adjourn for a game of billiards. No 
doubt a very harmless way of passing the time, 
but not to me enlivening. But Walters is a con- 
ventional person, and, as long as he is doing 
what he would call " the correct thing," he is 
perfectly and serenely content. The sixth and 
last is going to Surbiton to spend the holidays 
with a mother and three sisters, and I think he is 
the most virtuously employed of all. He will 
walk out alone, with a terrier dog, before lunch ; 
and after lunch he will go out with his sisters ; 
and perhaps the vicar will come to tea. But then 
it will be home, and the girls will be proud of 
their brother, and will have the dishes he likes, 
and he will have his father's old study to smoke 



The Upton Letters 55 

in. I am not sure that he is not the happiest 
of all, because he is not only pursuing his own 
happiness. 

But I have no such duties before me. I might, 
I suppose, go down to my sister Helen at the 
Somersetshire vicarage where she lives so full a 
life. But the house is small, there are four child- 
ren, and not much money, and I should only be 
in the way. Charles would do his best to wel- 
come me, but he will be in a great fuss over his 
Baster services ; and he will ask me to use his 
study as though it were my own room, which will 
necessitate a number of hurried interviews in the 
drawing-room, my sister will take her letters up 
to her bedroom, and the doors will have to be 
carefully closed to exclude my tobacco smoke. 

This is all very sordid, no doubt, but I am con- 
fronted with sordid things to-day. The boys 
have just cleared off, and they are beginning to 
sweep out the schoolrooms. The inky, dreary 
desks, the ragged books, the odd fives-shoes in 
the pigeon-holes, the wheelbarrows full of fester- 
ing orange-peel and broken-down fives-balls: this 
is not a place for a self-respecting person to be in. 
I want to be mooning about country lanes, with 
the smell of spring woods blowing down the 



56 The Upton Letters 

valley. I want to be holding slow converse with 
leisurely rustic persons, to be surveying from the 
side of a high grassy hill the rich plain below, to 
hear the song of birds in the thickets, to try and 
feel myself one with the life of the world instead 
of a sordid sweeper of a corner of it. This is all 
very ungrateful to my profession, which I love, 
but it is a necessary reaction ; and what at this 
moment chiefly makes me grateful to it is that my 
pocket is full enough to let me have a holiday on 
a liberal scale, without thinking of small econo- 
mies. I may give pennies to tramps or children, 
or a shilling to a sexton for showing me a church. 
I may travel what class I choose, and put up at 
a hotel without counting the cost ; and oh ! the 
blessedness of that. I would rather have a three- 
days' holiday thus than three weeks with an 
anxious calculation of resources. 

April 8 th. — I am really off to the Cots wolds. 
I packed my beloved knapsack yesterday after- 
noon. I put in it — precision is the essence of 
diarising — a spare shirt, which will have to serve 
if necessary as a nightgown, a pair of socks, a 
pair of slippers, a toothbrush, a small comb, and 
a sponge ; that is suflQcient for a philosopher. A 
pocket volume of poetry — Matthew Arnold this 



The Upton Letters 57 

time — and a map completed my outfit. And I 
sent a bag containing a more liberal wardrobe to 
a distant station, which I calculated it would take 
me three days to reach. Then I went off by an 
afternoon train, and, by sunset, I found myself 
in a little tow^n, Hinton Perevale, of stone-built 
houses, with an old bridge. I had no sense of 
freedom as yet, only a blessed feeling of repose. 
I took an early supper in a small low-roofed 
parlour with muUioned windows. By great good 
fortune, I found myself the only guest at the inn, 
and had the room to myself ; then I went early 
and gratefully to bed, utterly sleepy and content, 
with just enough sense left to pray for a fine day. 
My prayer is answered this morning. I slept a 
dreamless sleep, and was roused by the cheerful 
crowing of cocks, which picked about the back- 
yard of the inn. I dressed quickly, only suspend- 
ing my task to watch the little dramas of the inn 
yard — the fowls on the pig-sty wall ; the horse 
waiting meekly, with knotted traces hanging 
round it, to be harnessed ; the cat, on some grave 
business of its own, squeezing gracefully under 
a closed barn door ; the weary, flat-footed duck, 
nuzzling the mud of a small pool as delicately as 
though it were a rich custard. I was utterly free ; 



58 The Upton Letters 

I might go and come as I liked. Time had ceased 
to exist for me, and it was pleasant to reflect, as 
I finished m}^ simple breakfast, that I should 
under professional conditions have been hurrying 
briskly into school for an hour of I^atin Prose. 
The incredible absurdity and futility of it all 
came home to me. Half the boys that I teach so 
elaborately would be both more wholesomely and 
happily employed if they were going out to farm- 
work for the day. But they are gentlemen's sons, 
and so must enter what are called the liberal pro- 
fessions, to retire at the age of sixty with a poor 
digestion, a peevish wife, and a family of impos- 
sible children. But it is only in such inconse- 
quent moments that I allow myself to think thus 
slightingly of I^atin Prose. It is a valuable ac- 
complishment, and, when I have repaired the 
breaches made by professional work in the mental 
equilibrium, I shall rejoin my colleagues with a 
full sense of its paramount importance. 

I scribble this diary with a vile pen, and ink 
like blacking, on the corner of my breakfast-table. 
I have packed my knapsack, and in a few minutes 
I shall set out upon my march. 

April gth. — I spent an almost perfect day yes- 
terday. It was a cool bright day, with a few 



The Upton Letters 59 

clouds like cotton- wool moving sedately in a blue 
sky. I first walked quietly about my little town, 
which was full of delicate beauties. The houses 
are all built of a soft yellow stone, which weathers 
into a species of rich orange. Heaven knows 
where the designers came from, but no two houses 
seem alike ; some of them are gabled, buttressed, 
stone-mullioned, irregular in outline, but yet with 
a wonderful sense of proportion. Some are 
Georgian, with classical pilasters and pediments. 
Yet they are all for use and not for show ; and 
the weak modern shop-windows, which some 
would think disfigure the delicate house-fronts, 
seem to me just to give the requisite sense of 
contrast. At the end of the street stands the 
church, with a stately perpendicular tower, and 
a resonant bell which tells the hour. This over- 
looks a pile of irregular buildings, now a farm, but 
once a great manor-house, with a dove-cote and 
pavilions ; but the old terrace is now an orchard, 
and the fine oriel of the house looks straight into 
the byre. Inside the church — it is open and well- 
kept — you can trace the history of the manor and 
its occupants, from Job Best, a rich mercer of 
London, whose monument, with marble pillars 
and obelisks, adorns the south aisle ; his son was 



6o The Upton Letters 

ennobled, whose effigy — more majestic still, robed 
and coroneted, with his Viscountess by his side, 
and her dog (with his name, yakke, engraven on 
his shoulder) — lies smiling, the slender hands 
crossed in prayer. But the house was not de- 
stined to survive. The Viscount's only daughter, 
the I^ady Penelope, looks down from the wall, a 
fair and delicate lady, the last of her brief race, 
who, as the old inscription says with a tender 
simplicity, ** dyed a mayd." I cannot help won- 
dering, my pretty lady, what your story was; and 
it will do you no hurt if one, who looks upon 
your gentle face, sends a wondering message of 
tenderness behind the veil to your pure spirit, re- 
gret for your vanished charm, and the fragrance 
of your soft bloom, and sadness for all sweet 
things that fade. 

The manor, so I learn, was burned wantonly by 
the Roundheads — there was a battle hereabouts — 
on the charge that it had harboured some fol- 
lowers of the King ; and so our dreams of great- 
ness and permanence are fulfilled. 

The whole church was very neat and spruce ; it 
had suffered a restoration lately. The walls were 
stripped of their old plaster and pointed, so that 
the inside is now rougher than the outside, a 



The Upton Letters 6i 

thing the ancient builders never intended. The 
altar is fairly draped with good hangings behind, 
and the chancel fitted with new oak stalls and 
seats, all as neat as a new pin. As I lingered 
in the church, reading the simple monuments, 
a rosy, burly vicar came briskly in, and seeing 
me there, courteously showed me all the treasures 
of his house, like Hezekiah. He took me into 
the belfry, and there, piled up against the wall, 
were some splendid Georgian columns and archi- 
traves, richly carved in dark brown wood. I 
asked what it was. '' Oh, a horrible pompous 
thing," he said; ** it was behind the altar — most 
pagan and unsuitable ; we had it all out as soon 
as I came. The first moment I entered the 
church, I said to myself, ' that must go,' and I 
have succeded, though it was hard enough to col- 
lect the money, and actually some of the old peo- 
ple here objected." I did not feel it was worth 
while to cast cold water on the good man's satis- 
faction — but the pity of it! I do not suppose that 
a couple of thousand pounds could have repro- 
duced it ; and it is simply heart-rending to see 
such a noble monument of piety and careful love 
sacrificed to a wave of so-called ecclesiastical 
taste. The vicar's chief pride was a new window, 



62 The Upton Letters 

by a fashionable modern firm; quite unobjection- 
able in design, and with good colour, but desper- 
ately uninteresting. It represented some females 
bearing the names of exotic saints, all exactly 
alike, faint, insipid, etiolated maidens, weighed 
down by heav}^ drapery, as though they were 
wrapped in bales of carpets. In the lower com- 
partments knelt some priests and bishops, simi- 
larly habited, in face exactly like the saints above, 
except that they were fitted out with mild curling 
beards — all pretty and correct, but with no char- 
acter or force. I suppose that fifty years hence, 
when our taste has broadened somewhat, this 
window will probably be condemned as impossible 
too. There can be no absolute canon of beauty ; 
the only principle ought to be to spare everything 
that is of careful and solid workmanship, to give 
it a chance, to let time and age have their perfect 
work. It is the utter conventionality of the whole 
thing that is so distressing ; the same thing is go- 
ing on all over the country, the attempt to put 
back the clock, and to try and restore things as 
they were ; history, tradition, association, are 
not considered. The old builders were equally 
ruthless, it is true ; they would sweep away a 
Norman choir to build a Decorated one ; but 



The Upton Letters 63 

at all events they were advancing and expand- 
ing, not feebly recurring to a past period of 
taste, and trying to obliterate the progress of the 
centuries. 

About noon I left the little town, and struck 
out up a winding lane to the hills. The copses 
were full of anemones and primroses ; birds sang 
sharply in the bushes which were gemmed with 
fresh green ; now and then I heard the wood- 
pecker laugh as if at some secret jest among the 
thickets. Presently the little town was at my 
feet, looking small and tranquil in the golden 
noon ; and soon I came to the top. It was 
grassy, open down-land up here, and in an instant 
the wide view of a rich wooded and watered plain 
spread before me, with shadowy hills on the hori- 
zon. In the middle distance, I saw the red roofs 
of a great town, the smoke going peacefully up ; 
here was a shining river-reach, like a crescent of 
silver. It was England indeed — tranquil, healthy, 
prosperous England. 

The rest of the day I need not record. It was 
full of delicate impressions — an old, gabled, mul- 
lioned house among its pastures ; a hamlet by 
a stream, admirably grouped ; a dingle set with 
primroses ; and over all, the long, pure lines of 



64 The Upton Letters 

upland, with here and there, through a gap, the 
purple, wealthy plain. 

I write this in the evening, at a little wayside 
inn, in a hamlet under the hill. The name alone, 
Wenge Grandmain, is worth a shilling. It is 
very simple, but clean, and the people are kind ; 
not with the professional manner of those who 
bow, smiling, to a paying guest, but of those who 
welcome a wanderer and try to make him a home. 
And so, in a dark-panelled little parlour, with a 
sedate-ticking clock, I sit while the sounds of life 
grow fainter and rarer in the little street. 

Th^ Crossfoxks Inn, Bourton-on-the-Woi.d, 

April 1 6, 1904. 

Dkar HkrbkrT, — I have now been ten days 
on my travels, but for the last week I have pitched 
my moving tent at Bourton. Do you shudder 
with the fear that I am going to give you pages 
of description of scenery ? It is not a shiidder 
with me when I get a landscape-letter ; it is 
merely that leaden dulness which falls upon the 
spirit when it is confronted with statements which 
produce no impression upon the mind. I always, 
for instance, skip the letters of travel which appear 
about the third chapter of great biographies, when 



The Upton Letters 65 

the young gentleman goes for the Grand Tour 
after taking his degree. 

But imagine this: a great, rich, wooded, watered 
plain ; on the far horizon the shadowy forms of 
hills ; behind you, gently rising heights, with 
dingles and folds full of copsewood, rising to soft 
green downs. There, on the skirts of the upland, 
above the plain, below the hill, sits the little vil- 
lage, with a stately Perpendicular church tower. 
The village itself of stone houses, no two alike, 
all with character ; gabled, muUioned, weathered 
to a delicate ochre—some standing back, some 
on the street. Intermingled with these are fine 
Georgian houses, with great pilasters, all of stone 
too ; in the centre of the street a wall, with two 
tall gate-posts, crowned with stone balls ; a short 
lime avenue leads to a stately, gabled manor- 
house, which you can see through great iron 
gates. The whole scene incredibly romantic, 
exquisitely beautiful. 

My favourite walk is this. I leave the little 
town by a road which winds along the base of the 
hill. I pass round a shoulder, wooded and cov- 
ered to the base with tangled thickets, where the 
birds sing shrilly. I turn up to the left into a kind 

of * * combe. ' ' At the very farthest end of the little 

5 



66 The Upton Letters 

valley, at the base of the steeper slopes but now 
high above the plain, stands an ancient church 
among yews. On one side of it is a long, low- 
fronted, irregular manor-house, with a formal 
garden in front, approached by a little arched 
gate-house which stands on the road ; on the 
other side of the church, and below it, a no less 
ancient rectory, with a large Perpendicular win- 
dow, anciently a chapel, in the gable. In the 
warm, sheltered air, the laurels grow luxuriantly ; 
a bickering stream, running in a deep channel, 
makes a delicate music of its own ; a little farther 
on stands a farm, with barn and byre ; in the 
midst of the buildings is a high, stone-tiled dove- 
cote. The roo-hooing of the pigeons fills the 
whole place with a slumberous sound. I wind 
up the hill by a little path, now among thickets, 
now crossing a tilted pasture. I emerge on the 
top of a down ; in front of me lie the long slopes 
of the wold, with that purity and tranquillity of 
outline which only down-land possesses. Here 
on a spur stands a grass-grown camp, with an- 
cient thorn-trees growing in it. Turning round, 
the great plain runs for miles, with here and there 
a glint of water, where the slow-moving Avon 
wanders. Hamlets, roads, towers, lie out like a 



The Upton Letters 67 

map at my feet — all wearing that secluded, peace- 
ful air which tempts me to think that life would be 
easy and happy if it could only be lived among 
those quiet fields, with a golden light and length- 
ening shadows. 

1 find myself wondering in these quiet hours — 
I walk alone as a rule — what this haunting, in- 
communicable sense of beauty is. Is it a mere 
matter of temperament, of inner happiness, of 
physical well-being ; or has it an absolute exist- 
ence ? It conies and goes like the wind. Some 
days one is acutely, almost painfully, alive to it — 
painfully, because it makes such constant and in- 
sistent demands upon one's attention. Some 
days, again, it is almost unheeded, and one passes 
through it blind and indifferent. It is an expres- 
sion, I cannot help feeling, of the very mind of 
God ; and yet the ancient earthwork in which I 
stand, bears witness to the fact that in far-off days 
men lived in danger and anxiety, fighting and 
striving for bare existence. We have established 
by law and custom a certain personal security 
nowadays ; is our sense of beauty born of that 
security ? I cannot help wondering whether the 
old warriors who built this place cared at all for 
the beauty of the earth ; and yet over it all hangs 



68 The Upton Letters 

the gentle sadness of all sweet things that have an 
end. All those warriors are dust ; the boys and 
girls who wandered a century ago where I wander 
to-day, they are at rest too in the little churchyard 
that lies at my feet ; and my heart goes out to all 
who have loved and suffered, and to those who 
shall hereafter love and suffer here. An idle 
sympathy, perhaps, but none the less strong and 
real. 

But now for a little human experience that be- 
fell me here. I found the other day, not far from 
the church, an old artist sketching. A refined, 
sad-looking old fellow, sunburned and active, 
with white hair and pointed beard, and a certain 
pathetic attempt, of a faded kind, to dress for his 
part — low collar, a red tie, rough shooting-jacket, 
and so forth. He seemed in a sociable mood, and 
I sat down beside him. How it came about I 
hardly know, but he was soon telling me the 
story of his life. He was the tenant, I found, of 
the old manor-house, which he held at a ridicu- 
lous rent, and he had lived here nearly forty 
years. He had found the place as a young man, 
wandering about in search of the picturesque. I 
gathered that he had bright dreams and wide am- 
bitions. He had a small independence, and he 



The Upton Letters 69 

had meant to paint great pictures and make a 
name for himself. He had married ; his wife was 
long dead, his children out in the world, and he 
was living on alone, painting the same pictures, 
bought, so far as I could make out, mostly by 
American visitors. His drawing was old-fashioned 
and deeply mannerised. He was painting not 
what was there, but some old and faded concep- 
tion of his own as to what it was like — missing, 
I think, half the beauty of the place. He seemed 
horribly desolate. I tried, for his consolation and 
my own, to draw out a picture of the beautiful re- 
fined life he led; and the old fellow began to wear 
a certain jaunty air of dignity and distinction, 
which would have amused me if it had not made 
me feel inclined to cry. But he soon fell back 
into v/hat is, I suppose, a habitual melancholy. 
*' Ah, if you had known what my dreams were! " 
he said once. He went on to say that he now 
wished that he had taken up some simple and 
straightforward profession, had made money, and 
had his grandchildren about him. * ' I am more 
ghost than man," he said, shaking his dejected 
head. 

I despair of expressing to you the profound 
pathos that seemed to me to surround this old 



70 The Upton Letters 

despondent creature, with his broken dreams and 
his regretful memories. Where was the mistake 
he made ? I suppose that he over-estimated his 
powers ; but it was a generous mistake after all ; 
and he has had to bear the slow sad disillusion- 
ment, the crushing burden of futilit3\ He set 
out to win glory, and he is a forgotten, shabby, 
irresolute figure, subsisting on the charity of 
wealthy visitors! And yet he seems to have 
missed happiness by so little. To live as he does 
might be a serene and beautiful thing. If such a 
man had large reserves of hope and tenderness 
and patience ; if he could but be content with the 
tranquil beauty of the wholesome earth, spread so 
richly before his eyes, it would be a life to be 
envied. 

It has been a gentle lesson to me, that one 
must resolutely practise one's heart and spirit for 
the closing hours. In the case of successful men, 
as they grow older, it often strikes me with a 
sense of pain how passionately thej^ cling to their 
ambitions and activities. How many people there 
are who work too long, and try to prolong the 
energies of morning into the afternoon, and the 
toil of afternoon into the peace of evening. I 
earnestly desire to grow old gracefully ; to know 



The Upton Letters 71 

when to stop, when to slip into a wise and kindly 
passivity, with sympathy for those who are in the 
forefront of the race. And yet if one does not 
practise wonder and receptivity and hope, one 
cannot expect them to come suddenly and swiftly 
to one's call. There comes a day when a man 
ought to be able to see that his best work is be- 
hind him, that his active influence is on the wane, 
that he is losing his hold on the machine. There 
ought to come a patient, beautiful, and kindly 
dignity, a love of young things and fresh flowers ; 
not an envious and regretful unhappiness at the 
loss of the eager life and its brisk sensations, 
which betrays itself too often in a trickle of 
exaggerated reminiscences, a ** weary, day-long 
chirping." 

This is a harder task, I suppose, for an old 
bachelor than for a father of children. I have 
sometimes felt that adoption, with all its risks, 
of some young creature that you can call your 
own, would be a solution for many loveless 
lives, because it would stir them out of the com- 
fortable selfishness that is the bane of the barren 
heart. 

Of course, a schoolmaster suffers from this less 
than most professional men ; but, even so, it is 



^2 The Upton Letters 

melancholy to reflect how the boys one has cared 
for, and tried to help, drift out of one's sight and 
ken. I have no touch of the feeling which they 
say was characteristic of Jowett — and indeed is 
amply evidenced by his correspondence — that once 
a man's tutor he was always his tutor, even 
though his pupil became greyheaded and a grand- 
father. One must do the best for the boys and 
look for no gratitude ; it often comes, indeed, in 
rich measure, but the schoolmaster who craves 
for it is lost. 

Well, it is time to stop. I sit in a little, low- 
raftered parlour of the old inn ; the fire in the big 
hearth flickers into ash, and my candles flare to 
their sockets. I leave the place to-morrow ; and 
such is the instinct for permanence in the human 
mind, that I feel depressed and melancholy, as 
though I were leaving home. Ever your af- 
fectionate, 

T. B. 

The; Bi^ue Boar, Stanton Hardwick, 

April 21, 1904. 

Dbar Hkrbkrt, — I have made a pilgrimage 
to Stratford-on-Avon. I now feel overwhelmed 
with shame to reflect that, though my chief pre- 
occupations apart trom my profession have been 



The Upton Letters 73 

literary, I have never visited the sacred place be- 
fore. For an Englishman who cares for literature 
not to have been to Stratford-on-Avon is as gross 
a neglect as for an Englishman who has any sense 
of patriotism not to have visited Westminster 
Abbey. 

And now that I have been there and returned, 
and have leisure to think it all over, I feel that I 
have been standing on the threshold of a mystery. 
Who, when all is said and done, was this extra- 
ordinary man ? What were his thoughts, his 
aims, his views of himself and of the world ? If 
Shakespeare was Shakespeare, he seems, to speak 
frankly, to have had a humanity distinct and 
apart from his genius. Here we have the son 
of a busy, quarrelsome, enterprising tradesman — 
who eventually indeed came to grief in trade — of 
a yeoman stock, and bearing a common name. 
His mother could not write her own signature. 
Of his youth, we hear little that is not disreputable. 
He married under unpleasant circumstances, 
after an entanglement v^hich took place at a very 
early age ; he was addicted to poaching, or, at all 
events, to the illegal pursuit of other people's 
game. Then he drifts up to Eondon and joins a 
theatrical company — then a rascally kind of trade 



74 The Upton Letters 

— deserting his wife and family. His life in 
London is full of secrets. He is a man of 
mysterious passions and dangerous friendships. 
He writes plays of incomparable depth and 
breadth, touching every chord of humour, 
tragedy, and pathos ; certain rather elaborate 
poems of a precieux type, and strange sonnets, 
revealing a singular poignancy of unconventional 
feelings. But here, again, it is difficult to con- 
ceive that the writer of the Sojinets, who touched 
life so intensely at one feverish point, should have 
had the amazing detachment and complexity of 
mind and soul that the plays reveal. The no- 
tices of his talk and character are few and unen- 
lightening, and testify to a certain easy brilliance 
of wit, but no more. Before he is thirty, he is 
spoken of as both " upright " and '' facetious " — 
a singular combination. 

Then he suddenly appears in another aspect ; 
at the age of thirty-two, he is a successful, well- 
to-do man. And then his ambition, if he had 
any, seems to shift its centre, and he appears to 
be only bent upon restoring the fortunes of his 
family, and attaining a solid municipal position. 
He buys the biggest house in his native place ; 
from the proceeds of his writings, his professional 



The Upton Letters 75 

income as an actor, and from his share in the 
play-house of which he is part owner, he purchases 
lands and houses, he engages in lawsuits, he con- 
cerns himself with grants of arms. Still the flood 
of vStupendous literature flows out ; he seems to be 
under a contract to produce plays, for which he 
receives the magnificent sum of ;^io C^ioo of our 
money). He writes easily and never corrects. 
He seems to set no store on his writings, which 
stream from him like light from the sun. He 
adapts, collaborates, and has no idea of what 
would be called a high vocation. 

At forty-seven, it all ceases ; he writes no more, 
but lives prosperously in his native town, with 
occasional visits to London. At fifty- two, his 
health fails. He makes business-like arrange- 
ments in the event of death, and faces the dark- 
ness of the long sleep like any other good citizen. 

Who can co-ordinate or reconcile these things ? 
Who can conceive the likeness of the man, who 
steps in this light-hearted, simple way on to the 
very highest platform of literature — so lofty and 
unattainable a place he takes without striving, 
without arrogance, a throne among the thrones 
where Homer, Virgil, and Dante sit ? And yet 
his mind is set, not on these things, but on acres 



76 The Upton Letters 

and messuages, tithes and investments. He 
seems not only devoid of personal vanity, but 
even of that high and solemn pride which made 
Keats say, with faltering lips, that he believed 
he would be among the English poets after his 
death. 

I came through the pleasant water-meadows 
and entered the streets of the busy town. Every- 
thing, from bank to eating-shop, bears the name 
of Shakespeare ; and one cannot resist the 
thought that such local and homely renown 
would have been more to our simple hero's taste 
than the laurel and the throne. I groaned in 
spirit over the monstrous play-house, with its pre- 
tentious Teutonic air ; I walked through the 
churchyard, vocal with building rooks, and came 
to the noble church, full of the evidences of wealth 
and worship and honour. I do not like to confess 
the breathless awe with which I drew near to the 
chancel and gazed on the stone that, nameless, 
with its rude rhyme, covers the sacred dust. I 
cannot say what my thoughts were, but I was 
lost in a formless, unuttered prayer of true abase- 
ment before the venerable relics of the highest 
achievements of the human spirit. There beneath 
my feet slept the dust of the brain that conceived 



The Upton Letters il 

Hamlet and Macbeth, and the hand that had traced 
the Sonnets, and the eye that had plumbed the 
depths of life. That was a solemn moment, and 
I do not think I ever experienced so deep a thrill 
of speechless awe. I could not tear myself away ; 
I could only wonder and desire. 

Presently, by the kind offices of a pleasant sim- 
ple verger, I did more. I mounted on some steps 
he brought, and looked face to face at the bust 
in the monument. 

I cannot share in the feelings of those who 
would consider it formal or perfunctory. There 
was the high-domed forehead, like that of Pericles 
and Walter Scott ; there were the steady eyes, the 
clear-cut nose ; and as for the lips — I never for an 
instant doubted the truth of what I saw — I am as 
certain as I can be that they are the lips of a 
corpse, drawn up in the stiff tension of death, 
showing the teeth below. I am absolutely con- 
vinced that here we get as near to the man as we 
can get, and that the head is taken from a death- 
mask. What injures the dignity and beauty of 
the face is the plumpness of the chin that testifies 
to the burgher prosperity, the comfortable life, the 
unexercised brain of the later days. I saw after- 
wards the various portraits ; I suppose it is a 



78 The Upton Letters 

matter of evidence, but nothing convinced me of 
truth, not even the bilious, dilapidated, dyspeptic, 
white face of the folio engraving, with the hor- 
rible hydrocephalus development of skull. That 
is a caricature only. The others seem mere 
fancies. 

Then I saw patiently the other relics, the foun- 
dations of New Place, the schoolhouse — but all 
without emotion, except a deep sense of shame 
that the only records allowed to stand in the long, 
low-latticed room in which the boy Shakespeare 
probably saw a play first acted, are boards record- 
ing the names of school football and cricket teams. 
The ineptitude of such a proceeding, the hideous 
insistence of the athletic craze of England, drew 
from me a despairing smile ; but I think that 
Shakespeare himself would have viewed it with 
tolerance and even amusement. 

But most of these relics, like Anne Hathaway' s 
Cottage, are restored out of all interest, and only 
testify to the silly and frivolous demands of 
trippers. 

But, my dear Herbert, the treasure is mine. 
Feeble as the confession is, I do not think I ever 
realised before the humanity of Shakespeare. He 
seemed to me before to sit remote, enshrined aloof. 



The Upton Letters 79 

the man who could tell all the secrets of humanity 
that could be told, and whose veriest hints still 
seem to open doors into mysteries both high and 
sweet and terrible. But now I feel as if I had 
been near him, had been able to love what I had 
only admired. 

I feel somehow that it extends the kingdom of 
humanity to have realised Shakespeare ; and yet 
I am baffled. But I seem to trace in the later and 
what some would call the commonplace features 
of the man's life, a desire to live and be ; to taste 
life itself, not merely to write of what life seemed 
to be, and of what lay behind it. I am sure that 
some such allegory was in his mind when he 
wrote of Prospero, who so willingly gave up the 
isle full of noises, the power over the dreaming, 
sexless spirits of air and wood, to go back to his 
tiresome dukedom, and his petty court, and all 
the dull chatter and business of life. I am sure 
that Shakespeare thought of his art as an Ariel — 
that dainty, delicate spirit, out of the reach of love 
and desire, that slept in cowslip- bells and chased 
the flying summer on the bat's back, and that yet 
had such power to delude and bemuse the hu- 
man spirit. After all, Ariel could not come near 
the more divine inheritance of the human heart, 



8o The Upton Letters 

sorrow and crying, love and hate. Ariel was but 
a merry child, lost in passionless delights, yearn- 
ing to be free, to escape ; and Prospero felt, and 
Shakespeare felt, that life, with all its stains and 
dreariness and disease and darkness, was some- 
thing better and truer than the fragrant dusk of 
the copse, and the soulless laughter of the sum- 
mer sea. Ariel could sing the heartless, exquisite 
song of the sea-change that could clothe the bones 
and eyes of the doomed king ; but Prospero could 
see a fairer change in the eyes and heart of his 
lonely darling. 

And I am glad that even so Shakespeare could 
be silent, and buy and sell, and ,go in and out 
among his fellow-townsmen, and make merry. 
That is better than to sit arid and prosperous, 
when the brain stiffens with stupor, and the hand 
has lost its cunning, and to read old newspaper- 
cuttings, and long for adequate recognition. God 
give me and all uneasy natures grace to know 
when to hold our tongues ; and to take the days 
that remain with patience and wonder and tender- 
ness ; not making haste to depart, but yet not 
fearing the shadow out of which we come and into 
which we must go ; to live wisely and bravely and 
sweetly, and to close our eyes in faith, with a 



The Upton Letters 8i 

happy sigh, like a child after a long summer day 
of life and delight. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

The Bi^uk Boar, Stanton Hardwick, 

April 25, 1904. 

Dkar Hkrbkrt, — Since I last wrote I have 
been making pious pilgrimages to some of the 
great churches hereabouts : to Gloucester, Wor- 
cester, Tewkesbury, Malvern, Pershore. It does 
me good to see these great poems in stone, beauti- 
ful in their first conception, and infinitely more 
beautiful from the mellowing influences of age, 
and from the human tradition that is woven into 
them and through them. There are few greater 
pleasures than to make one's way into a Cathedral 
city, with the grey towers visible for miles across 
the plain, rising high above the house roofs and 
the smoke. At first one is in the quiet country ; 
then the roads begin to have a suburban air — new 
cottages rise by the wayside, comfortable houses, 
among shrubberies and plantations. Then the 
street begins ; the houses grow taller and closer, 
and one has a glimpse of some stately Georgian 
front, with pediment and cornice ; perhaps there 
is a cluster of factories, high, ratthng buildings 



82 The Upton Letters 

overtopped by a tall chimney, with dusty, mys- 
terious gear, of which one cannot guess the pur- 
port, travelling upwards into some tall, blank 
orifice. Then suddenly one is in the Close, wdtli 
trees and flowers and green grass, with quaint 
prebendal houses of every style and date, breath- 
ing peace and prosperity. A genial parson or two 
pace gravely about ; and above you soars the huge 
church, with pinnacle and parapet, the jackdaws 
cheerily hallooing from the lofty ledges. You are 
a little weary of air and sun ; you push open the 
great door, and you 're in the cool, dark nave with 
its holy smell ; you sit for a little and let the spirit 
of the place creep into your mind ; you walk 
hither and thither, read the epitaphs, mourn with 
the bereaved, give thanks for the record of long 
happy lives, and glow with mingled pain and 
admiration for some young life nobly laid down. 
The monuments of soldiers, the sight of dusty 
banners moving faintly in the slow-stirring air, 
always move me inexpressibly ; the stir and fury 
of war setting hither, like a quiet tide, to find its 
last abiding-place. Then there is the choir to 
visit. I do not really like the fashion which now 
generally prevails of paying a small sum, writing 
your name in a book, and being handed over to 



The Upton Letters 83 

the guidance of some verger, a pompous foolish 
person, who has learned his lesson, delivers it like 
a machine, and is put out by any casual question. 
I do not want to be lectured ; I want to wander 
about, ask a question if I desire it, and just have 
pointed out to me anything of which the interest 
is not patent and obvious. The tombs of old 
knights, the chantries of silent abbots and 
bishops, are all very affecting ; they stand for so 
much hope and love and recollection. Then 
sometimes one has a glow at seeing some ancient 
and famous piece of histor}- presented to one's 
gaze. The figure of the grim Saxon king, with 
his archaic beard and shaven upper-lip, for all the 
world like some Calvinistic tradesman; or Edward 
the Second, with his weak, handsome face and 
curly locks ; or the mailed statue of Robert of 
Normandy, with scarlet surcoat, starting up like 
a warrior suddenly aroused. Such tombs send a 
strange thrill through one, a thrill of wonder and 
pity and awe. What of them now? Sleepest 
thou, son of Atreus? Dost thou sleep, and 
dream perchance of love and war, of the little life 
that seemed so long, and over which the slow 
waves of time have flowed ? Little by little, in the 
holy walls, so charged with faith and tenderness 



84 The Upton Letters 

and wistful love, the pathetic vision of mortality 
creeps across the mind, and one loses oneself in 
a dream of wonder at the brief days so full of 
life, the record left for after time, and the silence 
of the grave. 

Then, when I have drunk my fill of sweet 
sights, I love to sit silent, while the great bell 
hums in the roof, and gathering footsteps of 
young and old patter through the echoing aisles. 
There is a hush of expectation. A few quiet 
worshippers assemble ; the western light grows 
low, and lights spring to life, one after another, 
in the misty choir. Then murmurs a voice, an 
Amen rises in full concord, and as it dies away the 
slumberous thunder of a pedal note rolls on the 
air; the casements whirr, the organ speaks. That 
fills, as it were, to the brim, as with some sweet 
and fragrant potion, the cup of beauty ; and the 
dreaming, inquiring spirit sinks content into the 
flowing, the aspiring tide, satisfied as with some 
heavenly answer to its sad questionings. Then 
the stately pomp moves slowly to its place— so 
familiar, perhaps trivial an act to those who per- 
form it, so grave and beautiful a thing to those 
who see it. The holy service proceeds with a 
sense of exquisite deliberation leading one, as by 



The Upton Letters 85 

a ladder, through the ancient ways, up to the 
message of to-day. Through psalm and canticle 
and anthem the solemnity passes on ; and perhaps 
some single slender voice, some boyish treble, un- 
conscious of its beauty and pathos, thrown into 
relief, like a fountain springing among the dark 
rocks, by the slow thunders of the organ, comes 
to assure the heart that it can rest, if but for a 
moment, upon a deep and inner peace, can be 
gently rocked, as it were, in a moving boat, be- 
tween the sky and translucent sea. Then falls 
the rich monotone of prayer ; and the organ 
wakes again for one last message, pouring a flood 
of melody from its golden throats, and dying away 
by soft gradations into the melodious bourdon of 
its close. 

Does this seem to you very unreal and fantastic ? 
I do not know ; it is very real to me. Sometimes, 
in dreary working hours, my spirit languishes 
under an almost physical thirst for such sweet- 
ness of sound and sight. I cannot believe that it 
is other than a pure and holy pleasure, because in 
such hours the spirit soars into a region in which 
low and evil thoughts, ugly desires, and spiteful 
ambitions, die, like poisonous flowers in a clear 
and wholesome air. I do not say that it inspires 



86 The Upton Letters 

one with high and fierce resolution, that it fits 
one for battling with the troublesome world ; but 
it is more like the green pastures and waters of 
comfort ; it is pleasure in which there is no touch 
of sensual appetite or petty desire ; it is a kind of 
heavenly peace in which the spirit floats in a pas- 
sionate longing for what is beautiful and pure. It 
is not that I would live my life in such reveries ; 
even while the soft sound dies away, the calling 
of harsher voices makes itself heard in the mind. 
But it refreshes, it calms, it pacifies ; it tells the 
heart that there is a peace into which it is possible 
to enter, and where it may rest for a little and 
fold its weary wings. 

Yet even as I write, as the gentle mood lapses 
and fades, I find myself beset with uneasy and 
bewildering thoughts about the whole. What 
was the power that raised these great places as so 
essential and vital a part of life ? We have lost 
it now, whatever it was. Churches like these 
were then an obvious necessity; kings and princes 
vied with each other in raising them, and no one 
questioned their utility. They are now a mere 
luxury for ecclesiastically-minded persons, built 
by slow accretion, and not by some huge single 
gift, to please the pride of a county or a city ; and 



The Upton Letters ^7 

this in da5^s when England is a thousand-fold 
richer than she was. They are no longer a part 
of the essence of life ; life has flowed away from 
their portals, and left them a beautiful shadow, a 
venerable monument, a fragrant sentiment. No 
doubt it was largely superstition that constructed 
them, a kind of insurance paid for heavenly se- 
curity. No one now seriously thinks that to en- 
dow a college of priests to perform services would 
affect his spiritual prospects in the life to come. 
The Church itself does not countenance the idea. 
Moreover, there is little demand in the world at 
large for the kind of beauty which they can and 
do minister to such as myself. The pleasure for 
which people spend money nowadays has to have 
a stirring, exciting, physical element in it to be 
acceptable. If it were otherwise, then our cathe- 
drals could take their place in the life of the na- 
tion ; but they are out of touch with railways, 
and newspapers, and the furious pursuit of ath- 
letics. They are on the side of peace, and delicate 
impressions and quiet emotions. I wish it were 
not so; but it would be faithless to believe that we 
are not in the hand of God still, and that our rest- 
less energies develop against His will. 

And then there falls a darker, more bewildering 



88 The Upton Letters 

thought. Suppose that one could bring one of the 
rough Galilean fishermen who sowed the seed of 
the faith, into a place like this, and say to him, 
" This is the fruit of your teaching ; you, whose 
Master never spoke a word of art or music, who 
taught poverty and simplicity, bareness of life, 
and an unclouded heart, you are honoured here ; 
these towers and bells are called after your names ; 
you stand in gorgeous robes in these storied win- 
dows. ' ' Would they not think and say that it was 
all a terrible mistake ? would they not say that the 
desire of the world, the lust of the eye and ear, 
had laid subtle and gentle hands on a stern and 
rugged creed, and bade it serve and be bound ? 

**Thy nakedness involves thy Spouse 
In the soft sanguine stuff she wears." 

So says an eager and vehement poet, apostrophis- 
ing the tortured limbs, the drooping eye of the 
Crucified Lord ; and is it true that these stately 
and solemn houses, these sweet strains of un- 
earthly music, serve His purpose and will ? Nay, 
is it not rather true that the serpent is here again 
aping the mildness of the dove, and using all the 
delicate, luxurious accessories of life to blind us 
to the truth ? 



The Upton Letters 89 

I do not know ; it leaves me in a sad and be- 
wildered conflict of spirit. And yet I somehow 
feel that God is in these places, and that, if only 
the heart is pure and the will strong, such influ- 
ences can minister to the growth of the meek and 
loving spirit. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

I don't know what has happened to your letters. 
Perhaps you have not been able to write ? I go 
back to work to-morrow. 

Upton, May 2, 1904. 
My dkar HkrbkrT, — My holidays are over, 
and I am back at work again. I have got your 
delightful letter ; it was silly to be anxious. . . . 
To-day I was bicycling ; I was horribly preoc- 
cupied, a-s, alas, I often am, with my own plans 
and thoughts. I was worrying myself about my 
work, fretting about the thousand little problems 
that beset a schoolmaster, trying to think out a 
chapter of a book which I am endeavouring to 
write, my mind beating and throbbing like a 
feverish pulse. I kept telling myself that the 
copses were beautiful, that the flowers were en- 
chanting, that the long line of distant hills seen 
across the wooded valleys and the purple plain 



90 The Upton Letters 

were ravishingly tranquil and serene ; but it was 
of no use ; my mind ran like a mill-race, a stream 
of thoughts jostling and hurrying on, in spite of 
my efforts to shut the sluice. 

Suddenly I turned a corner by a little wood, 
and found myself looking over into the garden 
of a small, picturesque cottage, which has been 
smartened up lately, and has become, I suppose, 
the country retreat of some well-to-do people. It 
was a pretty garden ; a gentle slope of grass, 
borders full of flowers, and an orchard behind, 
whitening into bloom, with a little pool in the 
shady heart of it. On the lawn were three peo- 
ple, obviously and delightfully idle ; an elderly 
man sat in a chair, smiling, smoking, reading a 
paper. The other two, a younger man and a 
young woman, were walking side b}^ side, their 
heads close together, laughing quietly at some 
gentle jest. A perambulator stood by the porch. 
Both the men looked like prosperous professional 
people, clean-shaven, healthy, and contented. I 
inferred, for no particular reason, that the young 
pair were man and wife, lately married, and that 
the elder man was the father-in-law. I had this 
passing glimpse, no more, of an interior ; and 
then I was riding among the spring woods again. 



The Upton Letters 91 

Of course, it was only an impression, but this 
happy, sunshiny scene, so suddenly opened to my 
gaze, so suddenly closed again, was like a parable. 
I felt as if I should have liked to stop, to take off 
my hat, and thank my unknown friends for mak- 
ing so simple, pleasant, and sweet a picture. I 
dare say they were as preoccupied in professional 
matters, as careful and troubled as myself, if I had 
known more about them. But in that moment 
they were finding leisure simply to taste and en- 
joy the wholesome savours of Hfe, and were 
neither looking backward in regret nor forward 
in anticipation. I dare say the jokes that amused 
them were mild enough, and that I should have 
found their conversation tedious and tiresome if 
I had been made one of the party. But they were 
symbolical ; they stood for me, and will stand, as 
a type of what we ought to aim at more ; and that 
is simply livi7ig. It is a lesson which you your- 
self are no doubt learning in your fragrant, shady 
garden. You have no need to make money, and 
your only business is to get better. But for my- 
self, I know that I work and think and hope and 
fear too much, and that in my restless pursuit of 
a hundred aims and ambitions and dreams and 
fancies, I am constantly in danger of hardly living 



92 The Upton Letters 

at all, but of simply racing on, like a man in- 
toxicated with aflfairs, without leisure for strolling, 
for sitting, for talking, for watching the sky and 
the earth, smelling the scents of flowers, noting 
the funny ways of animals, playing with children, 
eating and drinking. Yet this is our true heri- 
tage, and this is what it means to be a man; and, 
after all, one has (for all one knows) but a single 
life, and that a short one. It is at such moments 
as these that I wake as from a dream, and think 
how fast my life flows on, and how very little 
conscious of its essence I am. My head is full 
from morning to night of everything except liv- 
ing. For a busy man this is, of course, to a cer- 
tain extent inevitable. But where I am at fault 
is in not relapsing at intervals into a wise and 
patient passivity, and sitting serenely on the shore 
of the sea of life, playing with pebbles, seeing the 
waves fall and the ships go by, and wondering at 
the strange things cast up by the waves, and the 
sharp briny savours of the air. Why do I not do 
this ? Because, to continue my confession, it bores 
me. I must, it seems, be always in a fuss ; be 
always hauling myself painfully on to some petty 
ambition or some shadowy object that I have in 
view: and the moment I have reached it, I must 



The Upton Letters 93 

fix upon another, and begin the process over 
again. It is this lust for doing something tan- 
gible, for sitting down quickly and writing fifty, 
for having some definite result to show, which is 
the ruin of me and many others. After all, when 
it is done, what worth has it ? I am not a par- 
ticularly successful man, and I can't delude my- 
self into thinking that my work has any very 
supreme value. And meanwhile all the real ex- 
periences of life pass me by. I have never, God 
forgive me, had time to be in love ! That is a 
pitiful confession. 

Sometimes one comes across a person with none 
of these uneasy ambitions, with whom living is a 
fine art ; then one realises what a much more 
beautiful creation it is than books and pictures. 
It is a kind of sweet and solemn music. Such a 
man or woman has time to read, to talk, to write 
letters, to pay calls, to walk about the farm, to go 
and sit with tiresome people, to spend long hours 
with children, to sit in the open air, to keep poul- 
try, to talk to servants, to go to church, to re- 
member what his or her relations are doing, to 
enjoy garden parties and balls, to like to see 
young people enjoying themselves, to hear con- 
fessions, to do other people's business, to be a 



94 The Upton Letters 

welcome presence everywhere, and to leave a fra- 
grant memory, watered with sweet tears. That is 
to live. And such lives, one is tempted to think, 
were more possible, more numerous, a hund- 
red years ago. But now one expects too much, 
and depends too much on exciting pleasures, 
whether of work or play. Well, my three persons 
in a garden must be a lesson to me ; and, what- 
ever may really happen to them, in my mind they 
shall walk for ever between the apple-trees and 
the daffodils, looking lovingly at each other, 
while the elder man shall smile as he reads in the 
Chronicle of Heaven, which does not grow old. — 
Kver yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, May 9, 1904. 

My dear Hkrbejrt, — I am going back to the 
subject of ambition — do you mind ? 

Yesterday in chapel one of my colleagues 
preached rather a fine sermon on Activity, The 
difficulty under which he laboured is a common 
one in sermons ; it is simply this — How far is a 
Christian teacher justified in recommending am- 
bition to Christian hearers ? I think that, if one 
reads the Gospel, it is clear that ambition is not a 



The Upton Letters 95 

Christian motive. The root of the teaching of 
Christ seems to me to be that one should have or 
acquire a passion for virtue; love it for its beauty, 
as an artist loves beauty of form or colour ; and 
the simplicity which is to be the distinguishing 
mark of a Christian seems to me to be inconsistent 
with personal ambition. I do not see that there 
is any hint of a Christian being allowed to wish 
to do, what is called in domestic language *' bet- 
tering " himself. The idea rather is that the all- 
wise and all-loving Father puts a man into the 
world where he intends him to be ; and that a 
man is to find his highest pleasure in trying to 
serve the Father's will, with a heart full of love 
for all living things. A rich man is to disem- 
barrass himself of his riches, or at least be sure 
that they are no hindrance to him; a poor man is 
not to attempt to win them. Of course, it may be 
possible that the original Christians were intended 
to take a special line while the faith was leaven- 
ing the world, and that a different economy was 
to prevail when society had been Christianised. 
This is a point of view which can be subtly de- 
fended, but I think it is hard to find any justifica- 
tion for it in the Gospel. Ambition practically 
means that, if one is to shoulder to the front, one 



9^ The Upton Letters 

must push other people out of the way; one must 
fight for one's own hand. To succeed at no one's 
expense is only possible to people of very high 
character and genius. 

But it is difficult to see what motive to set be- 
fore boys in the matter ; the ideas of fame and 
glory, the hope of getting what all desire and 
what all cannot have, are deeply rooted in the 
childish mind. Moreover, we encourage ambition 
so frankly, both in work and play, that it is difii- 
cult to ascend the school pulpit and take quite a 
different line. To tell boys that they must simply 
do their best for the sake of doing their best, 
without any thought of the rewards of success — it 
is a very fine ideal, but is it a practical one ? If 
we gave prizes to the stupid boys who work with- 
out hope of success, and if we gave colours to the 
boys who played games hard without attaining 
competence in them, we might then dare to speak 
of the rewards of virtue. But boys despise unsuc- 
cessful conscientiousness, and all the rewards we 
distribute are given to aptitude. Some preachers 
think they get out of the diflSculty by pointing to 
examples of lives that battled nobly and unsuc- 
cessfully against difificulties ; but the point always 
is the ultimate recognition. The question is not 



The Upton Letters 97 

whether we can provide a motive for the unsuc- 
cessful ; but whether we ought not to discourage 
ambition in every form ? Yet it is the highest 
motive power in the case of most generous and 
active-minded boys. 

In the course of the sermon, the preacher quoted 
some lines of Omar Khayyam in order to illustrate 
the shamefulness of the indolent life. That is a 
very dangerous thing to do. The lovely stanzas, 
sweet as honey, flowed out upon the air in all 
their stately charm. The old sinner stole my 
heart away with his gentle, seductive, Epicurean 
grace. I am afraid that I felt like Paolo as he 
sat beside Francesca. I heard no more of the 
sermon that day ; I repeated to myself many of 
the incomparable quatrains, and felt the poem to 
be the most beautiful presentment of pure Agnos- 
ticism that has ever been given to the world. The 
worst of it is that the delicate traitor makes it so 
beautiful that one does not feel the shame and the 
futility of it. 

This evening, I have been reading the new life 
of FitzGerald, so you may guess what was the 
result of the sermon for me. It is not a wholly 
pleasing book, but it is an interesting one ; it 

gives a better picture of the man than any other 

7 



98 The Upton Letters 

book or article, simply by the great minuteness 
with which it enters into details. And now I find 
myself confronted by the problem in another 
shape. Was FitzGerald's life an unworthy one? 
He had great literary ambitions, but he made 
nothing of them. He lived a very pure, innocent, 
secluded life, delighting in nature and in the com- 
pany of simple people ; loving his friends with a 
passion that reminds one of Newman ; doing end- 
less little kindnesses to all who came within his 
circle; and tenderly loved by several great-hearted 
men of genius. He felt himself that he was to 
blame ; he urged others to the activities which he 
could not practise. And yet the results of his life 
are such as many other more busy, more con- 
scientious men have not achieved. He has left 
a large body of good literary work, and one im- 
mortal poem of incomparable beauty. He also 
left, quite unconsciously, I believe, many of the 
most beautiful, tender, humorous, wise letters in 
the English tongue ; and I find myself wondering 
whether all this could have been brought to pass 
in any other way. 

Yet I could not conscientiously advise any one 
to take FitzGerald's life as a model. It was 
shabby, undecided, futile ; he did many silly, 



The Upton Letters 99 

almost fatuous things ; he was deplorably idle 
and unstrung. At the same time, a terrible sus- 
picion creeps upon me that many busy men are 
living worse lives. I don't mean men who give 
themvSelves to activities, however dusty, which 
affect other people. I will grant at once that doc- 
tors, teachers, clergymen, philanthropists, even 
Members of Parliament are justified in their lives ; 
then, too, men who do the necessary work of the 
world — farmers, labourers, workmen, fishermen, 
are justifiable. But business men who make for- 
tunes for their children ; lawyers, artists, writers, 
who work for money and for praise — are these 
after all so much nobler than our indolent friend? 
To begin with, FitzGerald's life was one of ex- 
traordinary simplicity. He lived on almost no- 
thing, he had no luxuries ; he was like a lily of 
the field. If he had been a merely selfish man it 
would have been different ; but he loved his fel- 
low-men deeply and tenderly, and he showered 
unobtrusive kindness on all round him. 

I find it very hard to make up my mind ; it is 
true that the fabric of the world would fall to 
pieces if we were all FitzGeralds. But so, too, as 
has often been pointed out, would it fall to pieces 
if we all lived literally on the lines of the Sermon 



loo The Upton Letters 

on the Mount. Activities are for many people a 
purely selfish thing, to fill the time because they 
are otherwise bored ; and it is hard to see why a 
man who can fill his life with less strenuous pleas- 
ures, books, music, strolling, talking, should not 
be allowed to do so. 

Solve me the riddle, if you can ! The simplicity 
of the Gospel seems to me to be inconsistent with 
the Expansion of England ; and I dare not say 
off-hand that the latter is the finer ideal. — Ever 
yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, May 15, 1904. 
My dear Herbert,— You ask if I have read 
anything lately ? Well, I have been reading 
Stalky and Co. with pain, and, I hope, profit. It 
is an amazing book ; the cleverness, the freshness, 
the incredible originality of it all ; the careless 
ease with which scene after scene is touched off, 
and a picture brought before one at a glance, sim- 
ply astounds me, and leaves me gasping. But I 
don't want now to discourse about the literary 
merits of the book, great as they are. I want to 
relieve my mind of the thoughts that disquiet me. 
I think, to start with, it is not a fair picture of 



The Upton Letters loi 

school life at all. If it is really reminiscent,— and 
the life- likeness and verisimilitude of the book is 
undeniable,— the school must have been a very 
peculiar one. In the first place, the interest is 
concentrated upon a group of very unusual boys. 
The Firm of Stalky is, I humbly thank God, a 
combination of boys of a rare species. The other 
figures of boys in the book form a mere back- 
ground, and the deeds of the central heroes are 
depicted like the deeds of the warriors of the Iliad, 
They dart about, slashing and hewing, while the 
rank and file run hither and thither like sheep, 
their only use being in the numerical tale of 
heads that they can afford to the flashing blades 
of the protagonists ; and even so the chief figures, 
realistic though they are, remind me not so much 
of spirited pictures as of Gilray's caricatures. 
They are highly coloured, fantastic, horribly hu- 
man and yet, somehow, grotesque. Everything 
is elongated, widened, magnified, exaggerated. 
The difficulty is, to my mind, to imagine boys so 
lawless, so unbridled, so fond at intervals of low 
delights, who are yet so obviously wholesome- 
minded and manly. I can only humbly say that 
it is my belief, confirmed by experience, that boys 
of so unconventional and daring a type would not 



I02 The Upton Letters 

be content without dipping into darker pleasures. 
But Kipling is a great magician, and, in reading 
the book, one can thankfully believe that in this 
case it was not so ; just as one can also believe 
that, in this particular case, the boys were as ma- 
ture and shrewd, and of as complete and trenchant 
a wit as they appear. My own experience here 
again is that no boys could keep so easily on so 
high a level of originality and sagacity. The 
chief characteristic of all the boys I have ever 
known is that they are so fitful, so unfinished. A 
clever boy will say incredibly acute things, but 
among a dreary tract of wonderfully silly ones. 
The most original boys will have long lapses into 
conventionality, but the heroes of Kipling's book 
are never conventional, never ordinary ; and then 
there is an absence of restfulness which is one of 
the greatest merits of To7n Brown. 

But what has made the book to me into a kind 
of lyCnten manual is the presentation of the mas- 
ters. Here I see, portrayed with remorseless 
fidelity, the faults and foibles of my own class ; 
and I am sorr}^ to say that I feel deliberately, on 
closing the book, that schoolmastering must be a 
dingy trade. My better self cries out against this 
conclusion, and tries feebly to say that it is one of 



The Upton Letters 103 

the noblest of professions ; and then I think of 
King and Prout, and all my highest aspirations 
die away at the thought that I may be even as 
these. 

I suppose that Kipling would reply that he has 
done full justice to the profession by giving us the 
figures of the Headmaster and the Chaplain. The 
Headmaster is obviously a figure which his creator 
regards with respect. He is fair-minded, human, 
generous ; it is true that he is enveloped with a 
strange awe and majesty; he moves in a mysteri- 
ous way, and acts in a most inconsequent and un- 
expected manner. But he generally has the best 
of the situation ; and though there is little that 
is pastoral about him, yet he is obviously a 
wholesome-minded, manly sort of person, who 
whips the right person at the right time, and gen- 
erally scores in the end. But he is a Roman father, 
at best. He has little compassion and no tender- 
ness ; he is acute, brisk, and sensible ; but he has 
(at least to me) neither grace nor wisdom ; or, if 
he has, he keeps them under a polished metallic 
dish-cover, and only lifts it in private. I do not 
feel that the Headmaster has any religion, except 
the religion of all sensible men. In seeming to 
despise all sentiment, Kipling seems to me to 



I04 The Upton Letters 

throw aside several beautiful flowers, tied care- 
lessly up in the same bundle. There should be a 
treasure in the heart of a wise schoolmaster ; not 
to be publicly displayed nor drearily recounted ; 
but at the right moment, and in the right way, 
he ought to be able to show a boy that there are 
sacred and beautiful things which rule or ought 
to rule the heart. If the Head has such a treasure, 
he keeps it at the bank and only visits it in the 
holidays. 

The * * Padre " is a very human figure — to me 
the most attractive in the book; he has some wis- 
dom and tenderness, and his little vanities are 
very gently touched. But (I dare say I am a very 
pedantic person) I don't really like his lounging 
about and smoking in the boys' studies. I think 
that what he would have called tolerance is rather 
a deplorable indolence, a desire to be above all 
things acceptable. He earns his influence by 
giving his colleagues away, and he seems to me 
to think more of the honour of the boys than of 
the honour of the place. 

But King and Prout, the two principal masters 
— it is they who spoil the taste of my food and 
mingle my drink with ashes. They are, in their 
way, well-meaning and conscientious men. But 



The Upton Letters 105 

is it; not possible to love discipline without being 
a pedant, and to be vigilant without being a 
sneak? I fear in the back of my heart that Kip- 
ling thinks that the trade of a schoolmaster is one 
which no generous or self-respecting man can 
adopt. And yet it is a useful and necessary 
trade ; and we should be in a poor way if it came 
to be regarded as a detestable one. I wish with 
all my heart that Kipling had used his genius to 
make our path smoother instead of rougher. The 
path of the schoolmaster is indeed set round with 
pitfalls. A man who is an egotist and a bully 
finds rich pasturage among boys who are bound 
to listen to him, and over whom he can tyrannise. 
But, on the other hand, a man who is both brave 
and sensitive — and there are many such — can 
learn as well as teach abundance of wholesome 
lessons, if he comes to his task with some hope 
and love. King is, of course, a verbose bully; he 
delights in petty triumphs ; he rejoices in making 
himself felt ; he is a cynic as well, a greedy and 
low-minded man ; he takes a disgusting pleasure 
in detective work ; he begins by believing the 
worst of boys ; he is vain, shy, irritable ; he is 
cruel, and likes to see his victim writhe. I have 
known many schoolmasters, and I have never 



io6 The Upton Letters 

known a Mr. King, except perhaps at a private 
school. But even King has done me good ; he 
has confirmed me in my belief that more can be 
done by courtesy and decent amiability than can 
ever be done by discipline enforced by hard words. 
He teaches me not to be pompous, and not to 
hunger and thirst after finding things out. He 
makes me feel sure that the object of detection is 
to help boys to be better, and not to have the sat- 
isfaction of punishing them. 

Prout is a feeble sentimentalist, with a deep be- 
lief in phrases. He is a better fellow than King, 
and is only an intolerable goose. Both the men 
make me wish to burst upon the scene, when 
they are grossly mishandling some simple situa- 
tion: but while I want to kick King, when he is 
retreating with dignity, my only desire is to ex- 
plain to Prout as patiently as I can what an ass 
he is. He is a perfect instance of absolutely in- 
effective virtue, a plain dish unseasoned with salt. 

There are, of course, other characters in the 
book, each of them grotesque and contemptible in 
his own way, each of them a notable example of 
what not to be. But I would pardon this if the 
book were not so unjust; if Kipling had included 
in his gathering of masters one kindly, serious 



The Upton Letters 107 

gentleman, whose sense of vocation did not make 
him a prig. And if he were to reply that the 
Headmaster fulfils these conditions, I would say 
that the Headmaster is a prig in this one point, 
that he is so desperately afraid of priggishness. 
The manly man to my mind, is the man who does 
not trouble his head as to whether he is manly or 
not, not the man who wears clothes too big for him, 
and heavy boots, treads like an ox, and speaks 
gruflay ; that is a pose, not better or worse than 
other poses. And what I want in the book is a 
man of simple and direct character, interested in his 
work, and not ashamed of his interest ; attached 
to the boys, and not ashamed of seeming to care. 

My only consolation is that I have talked to a 
good many boys who have read the book ; they 
have all been amused, interested, delighted. But 
they say frankly that the boys are not like any 
boys they ever knew, and, when I timidly inquire 
about the masters, they laugh rather sheepishly, 
and say that they don't know about that. 

I am sure that we schoolmasters have many 
faults ; but we are really trying to do better, and, 
as I said before, I only wish that a man of Kip- 
ling's genius had held out to us a helping hand, 
instead of giving us a push back into the ugly 



io8 The Upton Letters 

slough of usherdom, out of which many good fel- 
lows my friends and colleagues, have, however 
feebly, been struggling to emerge. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, May 21, 1904. 

My dear HkrbKR'T, — I have been wondering 
since I wrote last whether I could possibly write 
a school story. I have often desired to try. The 
thing has hardly ever been well done. Tom 
Brown remains the best. Dean Farrar's books, 
vigorous in a sense as they are, are too senti- 
mental. Stalky & Co., as I said in my last letter, 
in spite of its amazing cleverness of insight, is not 
typical. Gilkes's books are excellent studies of 
the subject, but lack unity of theme ; Tim is an 
interesting book, but reflects a rather abnormal 
point of view ; A Day of My Life at Eton is too 
definitely humorous in conception, though it has 
great verisimilitude. 

In the first place, the plot is a difiiculty ; the 
incidents of school life do not lend themselves to 
dramatic situations. Then, too, the trivialities 
of which school life is so much composed, the 
minuteness of the details involved, make the sub- 
ject a singularly complicated one ; another great 



The Upton Letters 109 

diflficulty is to give any idea of the conversations 
of boys, which are mainly concerned with small 
concrete facts and incidents, and are lacking in 
humour and flexibility. 

Again, to speak frankly, there is a Rabelaisian 
plainness of speech on certain subjects, which one 
must admit to be apt to characterise boys' conver- 
sation, which it is impossible to construct or in- 
clude, and yet the omission of which subtracts 
considerable reality from the picture. Genius 
might triumph over all these obstacles, of course, 
but even a genius would find it very difiicult to 
put himself back into line with the immaturity 
and narrow views of boys ; their credulity, their 
preoccupations, their conventionality, their inar- 
ticulateness — all these qualities are very hard to 
indicate. Only a boy could formulate these 
things, and no boy has sufficient ease of expres- 
sion to do so, or sufficient detachment both to play 
the part and to describe it. A very clever un- 
dergraduate, with a gift of language, might write 
a truthful school-book; but yet the task seems to 
require a certain mellowness and tolerance which 
can only be given by experience ; and then the 
very experience would tend to blunt the sharpness 
of the impressions. 



no The Upton Letters 

As a rule, in such books, the whole conception 
of boyhood seems at fault ; a boy is generally 
represented as a generous, heedless, unworldly 
creature. My experience leads me to think that 
this is very wide of the mark. Boys are the most 
inveterate Tories. They love monopoly and 
privilege, they are deeply subservient, they have 
little idea of tolerance or justice or fair- play, they 
are intensely and narrowly ambitious ; they have 
a certain insight into character, but there are 
some qualities, like vulgarity, which they seem 
incapable of detecting. They have a great liking 
for jobs and small indications of power. They 
are not, as a rule, truthful ; they have no compas- 
sion for weakness. It is generally supposed that 
they have a strong sense of liberty, but this is 
not the case ; they are, indeed, tenacious of their 
rights, or what they suppose to be their rights, 
but they have little idea of withstanding tyranny, 
they are incapable of democratic combination, and 
submit blindly to custom and tradition. Neither 
do I think them notably affectionate or grateful ; 
everything that is done for them within the limits 
of a prescribed and habitual system they accept 
blindly and as a matter of course, while at the 
same time they are profoundly affected by any 



The Upton Letters 1 1 1 

civility or sympathy shown them outside the or- 
dinary course of life. I mean that they do not 
differentiate between a master who takes im- 
mense trouble over his work, and discharges his 
duties with laborious conscientiousness, and a 
master who saves himself all possible trouble ; 
they are not grateful for labour expended on 
them, and they do not resent neglect. But a 
master who asks boys to breakfast, talks politely 
to them, takes an interest in them in a sociable 
way, will win a popularity which a laborious and 
inarticulate man cannot attain to. They are ex- 
tremely amenable to any indications of personal 
friendship, while they are blind to the virtues of 
a master who only studies their best interests. 
They will work, for instance, with immense 
vigour for a man who praises and appreciates in- 
dustry ; but a man who grimly insists on hard 
and conscientious work is looked upon as a person 
who finds enjoyment in a kind of slave-driving. 

Boys are, in fact, profound egoists and profound 
individualists. Of course there are exceptions to 
all this ; there are boys of deep affection, scru- 
pulous honesty, active interests, keen and far- 
reaching ambitions ; but I am trying to sketch 
not the exception but the rule. 



112 The Upton Letters 

You will ask what there is left ? What there is 
that makes boys interesting and attractive to deal 
with ? I will tell you. There is, of course, the 
mere charm of youthfulness and simplicity. And 
the qualities that I have depicted above are really 
the superficial qualities, the conventions that boys 
adopt from the society about them. The nobler 
qualities of human nature are latent in many 
boys ; but they are for the most part superficially 
ruled by an intensely strong mauvaise honte, 
which leads them to live in two worlds, and to 
keep the inner life very sharply and securely 
ruled off from the outer. They must be ap- 
proached tactfully and gently as individuals. It 
is possible to establish a personal and friendly re- 
lation with many boys, so long as they understand 
that it is a kind of secret understanding, and will 
not be paraded or traded upon in public. In 
their inner hearts there are the germs of many 
high and beautiful things, which tend, unless a 
boy has some wise and tender older friend — a 
mother, a father, a sister, even a master — to be 
gradually obscured under the insistent demands 
of his outer life. Boys are very diffident about 
these matters, and require to be encouraged and 
comforted about them. The danger of public 



The Upton Letters 113 

schools, with overworked masters, is that the 
secret life is apt to get entirely neglected, and 
then these germs of finer qualities get neither 
sunshine or rain. Public spirit, responsibility, 
intellectual interests, unconventional hopes, vir- 
tuous dreams — a boy is apt to think that to speak 
of such things is to incur the reproach of prig- 
gishness ; but a man who can speak of them nat- 
urally and without affectation, who can show 
that they are his inner life too, and are not al- 
lowed to flow in a sickly manner into his outer 
life, who has a due and wise reserve, can have 
a very high and simple power for good. 

But to express all this in the pages of a book 
is an almost impossible task ; what one wants is 
to get the outer life briskly and sharply depicted, 
and to speak of the inner in hints and flashes. 
Unfortunately, the man who really knows boys is 
apt to get so penetrated with the pathos, the un- 
realised momentousness, the sad shipwrecks of 
boy life that he is not light-hearted enough to 
depict the outer side of it all, and a book becomes 
morbid and sentimental. Then, too, to draw a 
boy correctly would often be to produce a sense of 
contrast which would almost give a feeling of 
hypocrisy, because there are boys — and not 



114 The Upton Letters 

unfrequently the most interesting — who, if fairly- 
drawn, would appear frivolous, silly, conventional 
in public, even coarse, who yet might have very 
fine things behind, though rarely visible. More- 
over, the natural, lively, chattering boys, whom 
it would be a temptation to try and draw, are not 
really the most interesting. They tend to develop 
into bores of the first water in later life. But the 
boy who develops into a fine man is often un- 
gainly, shy, awkward, silent in early life, acutely 
sensitive, and taking refuge in bluntness or 
dumbness. 

The most striking instances that have come 
under my own experience, where a boy has really 
revealed the inside of his mind and spirit, are 
absolutely incapable of being expressed in words. 
If I were to write down what boys have said to 
me, on critical occasions, the record would be 
laughed at as impossible and unnatural. 

So you see that the difiiculties are well-nigh in- 
superable. Narrative would be trivial, conversa- 
tion affected, motives inexplicable ; for, indeed, 
the crucial difficulty is the absolute unaccount- 
ableness of boys' actions and words. A school- 
master gets to learn that nothing is impossible ; a 
boy of apparently unblemished character will be- 



The Upton Letters 115 

have suddenly in a manner that makes one de- 
spair of human nature, a black sheep will act and 
speak like an angel of light. The interest is the 
mystery and the impenetrability of it all ; it is so 
impossible to foresee contingencies or to predict 
conduct. This impulsiveness, as a rule, dimin- 
ishes in later life under the influence of maturity 
and material conditions. But the boy remains in- 
soluble, now a demon, now an angel ; and thus 
the only conclusion is that it is better to take 
things as they come, and not to attempt to de- 
scribe the indescribable. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, May 28, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — I am bursting with news. 
I am going to tell you a secret. I have been 
offered an important Academical post : that is to 
say, I received a confidential intimation that I 
should be elected if I stood. The whole thing is 
confidential, so that I must not even tell you 
what the ofier was. I should have very much 
liked to talk it over with you, but I had to make 
up my mind quickly ; there was no time to write, 
and, moreover, I feel sure that when I had turned 
out tloLQ pros and cons of my own feelings for your 
inspection, you would have decided as I did. 



ii6 The Upton Letters 

You will say at once that you do not know 
how I reconciled my refusal with the cardinal arti- 
cle of my faith, that our path is indicated to us 
by Providence, and that we ought to go where we 
are led. Well, I confess that I felt this to be a 
strong reason for accepting. The invitation came 
to me as a complete surprise, absolutely unsought, 
and from a body of electors who know the kind 
of man they want and have a large field to choose 
from ; there was no question of private influence 
or private friendship. I hardly know one of the 
committee ; and they took a great deal of trouble 
in making inquiries about men. 

But, to use a detestable word, there is a strong 
difference between an outward call and an inward 
call. It is not the necessary outcome of a belief 
in Providence that one accepts all invitations, and 
undertakes whatever one may be asked to do. 
There is such a thing as temptation ; and there is 
another kind of summons, sent by God, which 
seems to come in order that one may take stock 
of one's own position and capacities and realise 
what one's line ought to be. It is like a passage 
in a labyrinth which strikes off at right angles 
from the passage one is following ; the fact that 
one may take a sudden turn to the left is not neces- 



The Upton Letters 1 1 7 

sarily a clear indication that one is meant to do 
so. It may be only sent to make one consider the 
reasons which induce one to follow the path on 
which one is embarked. 

I had no instantaneous corresponding sense 
that it was my duty to follow this call. I was (I 
will confess it) a little dazzled ; but, as soon as 
that wore off, I felt an indescribable reluctance to 
undertake the task, a consciousness of not being 
equal to it, a strong sense that I was intended for 
other things. 

I don't mean to say that there was not mucli 
that was attractive about the offer in a superficial 
way. It meant money, power, position, and con- 
sequence — all good things, and good things which 
I unreservedly like. I am like every one else in 
that respect ; I should like a large house, and a 
big income, and professional success, and respect 
and influence as much as any one — more, indeed, 
than many people. 

But I soon saw that this would be a miserable 
reason for being tempted by the offer, the delight 
of being called Rabbi. I don't pretend to be 
high-minded, but even I could see that, unless 
there was a good deal more than that in my mind, 
I should be a wretched creature to be influenced 



ii8 The Upton Letters 

by such considerations. These are merely the 
conveniences ; the real point was the work, the 
power, the possibility of carrying out certain edu- 
cational reforms which I have very much at heart, 
and doing something towards raising the general 
intellectual standard, which I believe to be lower 
than it need be. 

Now, on thinking it out carefully, I came to 
the conclusion that I was not strong enough for 
this rdle. I am no Atlas ; I have no deep store of 
moral courage ; I am absurdly sensitive, ill-fitted 
to cope with unpopularity and disapproval. Bit- 
ter, vehement, personal hostility would break 
my spirit. A fervent Christian might say that 
one had no right to be faint-hearted, and that 
strength would be given one ; that is perfectly 
true in certain conditions, and I have often ex- 
perienced it when some intolerable and inevitable 
calamity had to be faced. But it is an evil reck- 
lessness not to weigh one's own deficiencies. No 
one would say that a man ignorant of music ought 
to undertake to play the organ, if the organist 
failed to appear, believing that power would be 
given him. Christ Himself warned His disciples 
against embarking in an enterprise without count- 
ing the cost. But here I confess was the darkest 



The Upton Letters 119 

point of my dilemma — was it cowardice and indo- 
lence to refuse to attempt what competent persons 
believed I could do ? or was it prudent and wise 
to refuse to attempt what I, knowing my own 
temperament better, felt I could not attempt 
successfully ? 

Now in my present work it is different. I know 
that my strength is equal to the responsibility ; I 
know that I can do what I undertake. The art 
of dealing with boys is very different from the art 
of dealing with men, the capacit}^ for subordinate 
command is very different from the capacity for 
supreme command. Of course, it is a truism to 
say that if a man can obey thoroughly and loyally 
he can probably command. But then, again, 
there is a large class of people, to which I believe 
myself to belong, who are held to be, in the words 
of Tacitus, Capax imperii, nisi imperasset. 

Then, too, I felt that a great task must be 
taken up in a certain buoyancy and cheerfulness 
of spirit, not in heaviness and diflBdence. There 
are, of course, instances where a work reluctantly 
undertaken has been crowned with astonishing 
success. But one has no business to think that 
reluctance and diffidence to undertake a great 
work are a proof that God intends one to do it. 



I20 The Upton Letters 

I am quite aware of the danger which a tem- 
perament like my own runs of dealing with such 
a situation in too complex and subtle a way. 
That is the hardest thing of all to get rid of, be- 
cause it is part of the very texture of one's mind. 
I have tried, however, to see the whole thing in 
as simple a light as possible, and to ask myself 
whether acceptance was in any sense a plain duty. 
If the offer had been a constraining appeal, I 
should have doubted. But it was made in an 
easy, complimentary way, as if there was no 
doubt that I should fall in with it. 

Well, I had a very anxious day; but I simply 
(I may say that to you) prayed that my way 
might be made clear ; and the result was a con- 
viction, which rose like a star and then, as it 
were, waxed into a sun, that the quest was not 
for me. 

And so I refused ; and I am thankful to say 
that I have had, ever since, the blessed and un- 
alterable conviction that I have done right. Even 
the conveniences have ceased to appeal to me ; 
they have not even, like the old Adam in the 
Pilgrim's Progress, pinched hold of me and given 
me a deadly twitch. Though the picturesque 
mind of one who, like myself, is very sensitive to 



The Upton Letters 121 

" the attributes of awe and majesty," takes a cer- 
tain peevish pleasure in continuing to depict my 
unworthy self clothed upon with majesty, and 
shaking all Olympus with my nod. 

But if Olympus had refused to shake, even 
though I had nodded like a mandarin ? 

I am sure that I shall not regret it ; and I do 
not even think that my conscience will reproach 
me ; nor do I think that (on this ground alone) I 
shall be relegated to the dark circle of the Inferno 
with those who had a great opportunity given 
them and would not use it. 

Please confirm me if you can! Comfort me 
with apples, as the So7ig says. I am afraid you 
will only tell me that it proves that you are right, 
and that I have no ambition. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, June 4, 1904. 
Dkar HkrbkrT, — I have nothing to write 
about. The summer is come, and with it I enter 
into purgatory ; I am poured out like water, and 
my heart is like melting wax ; I have neither 
courage nor kindness, except in the early morn- 
ing or the late evening. I cannot work, and I 
cannot be lazy. The only consolation I have — 



122 The Upton Letters 

and I wish it were a more sustaining one — is that 
most people like hot weather better. 

I will put down for you in laborious prose what 
if I were an artist I would do in half a dozen 
strokes. There is a big place near here, Rushton 
Park. I was bicycling with Randall past the 
lodge, blaming the fair summer, like the fisher- 
man in Theocritus, when he asked if I should like 
to ride through. The owner, Mr. Payne, is a 
friend of his, and laid a special injunction on him 
to go through whenever he liked. We w^ere at 
once admitted, and in a moment we were in a 
Paradise. Payne is famed for his gardeners, and 
I think I never saw a more beautiful place of its 
kind. The ground undulates very gracefully, 
and we passed by velvety lawns, huge towering 
banks of rhododendron all ablaze with flower, ex- 
quisite vistas and glades, with a view of far-off" 
hills. It seemed to me to be an enchanted pleas- 
ance, like the great Palace in The Princess. Now 
and then we could see the huge fagade of the 
house above us, winking through its sunblinds. 
There was not a soul to be seen ; and this added 
enormously to the magical charm of the place, as 
though it were the work of a Genie, not made 
with hands. We passed a huge fountain dripping 



The Upton Letters 123 

into a blue-tiled pool, over a great cockleshell of 
marble ; then took a path which wound into the 
wood, all a mist of fresh green, and in a moment 
we were in a long old-fashioned garden, with 
winding box hedges, and full of bright flowers. 
To the left, where the garden was bordered by the 
wood, was set a row of big marble urns, grey with 
age, on high pedestals, all dripping with flowering 
creepers. It was very rococo, like an old French 
picture, but enchanting for all that. To the right 
was a long, mellow brick wall, under which stood 
some old marble statues, weather-stained and soft 
of hue. The steady sun poured down on the 
sweet, bright place, and the scent of the flowers 
filled the air with fragrance, while a dove, hidden 
in some green towering tree, roo-hooed delicately, 
as though her little heart were filled with an 
indolent contentment. 

The statue that stood nearest us attracted my 
attention. I cannot conceive what it was meant 
to represent. It was the figure of an old, bearded 
man, with a curious brimless hat on his head, and 
a flowing robe ; in his hands, he held and fingered 
some unaccountable object of a nondescript shape; 
and he had an unpleasant fixed smile, which he 
seemed to turn on us, as though he knew a secret 



124 The Upton Letters 

connected with the garden which he might not 
reveal, and which if revealed would fill the hearers 
with a secret horror. I do not think that I have 
often seen a figure which affected me so disagree- 
ably. He seemed to be saying that within this 
bright and fragrant place lay some tainted mystery 
which it were ill to tamper with. It was as 
though we opened a door out of some stately cor- 
ridor, and found a strange, beast-like thing run- 
ning to and fro in a noble room. 

Well, I do not know! But it seems to me a 
type of many things, and I doubt not that the 
wise-hearted patrician, the former owner, who laid 
out the garden and set the statue in its place, did 
so with a purpose. It is for us to see that there 
lies no taint behind our pleasures ; but even if 
this be not the message, the heart of the mystery, 
may not the figure stand perhaps for the end, the 
bitter end, which lies ahead of all, when the lip is 
silent and the eye shut, and the heart is stilled at 
last? 

The quiet figure, with its secret, wicked smile, 
somehow slurred for me the sunshine and the 
pleasant flowers, and I was glad when we turned 
away. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 



The Upton Letters 125 

Upton, June ii, 1904. 

Dkar HkrbkrT,— Yes, I am sure you are 
right. The thing I get more and more impatient 
of every year is conventionality in every form. 
It is rather foolish, I am well aware, to be impa- 
tient about anything ; and great conventionality 
of mind is not inconsistent with entire sincerity, 
for the simple reason that conventionality is what 
ninety-nine hundredths of the human race enjoy. 
Most people have no wish to make up their own 
minds about anything ; they do not care to know 
what they like or why they like it. This is often 
the outcome of a deep-seated modesty. The or- 
dinary person says to himself, " Who am I that I 
should set up a standard ? If all the people that 
I know like certain occupations and certain 
amusements, they are probably right, and I will 
try to like them, too." I don't mean that this 
feeling is often put into words, but it is there; and 
there is for most people an immense power in 
habit. People grow to like what they do, and 
seldom inquire if they really like it, or why they 
like it. 

Of course, to a certain extent, conventionality 
is a useful, peaceful thing. I am not here recom- 
mending eccentricity of any kind. People ought 



126 The Upton Letters 

to fall in simply and quietly with ordinary modes 
of life, dress, and behaviour ; it saves time and 
trouble ; it sets the mind free. But what I rather 
mean is that, when the ordinary usages of life 
have been complied with, all sensible people ought 
to have a line of their own about occupation, 
amusements, friends, and not run to and fro like 
sheep just where the social current sets. What I 
mean is best explained by a couple of instances. 
I met at dinner last night our old acquaintance, 
Foster, who was at school with us. He was in 
my house ; I don't think you ever knew much of 
him. He was a pleasant, good-humoured boy 
enough; but his whole mind was set on discover- 
ing the exact code of social school life. He 
wanted to play the right games, to wear the right 
clothes, to know the right people. He liked be- 
ing what he called "in the swim." He never 
made friends with an obscure or unfashionable 
boy. He was quite pleasant to his associates 
when he was himself obscure ; but he waited 
quietly for his opportunity to recommend himself 
to prominent boys, and, when the time came, he 
gently threw over all his old companions and 
struck out into more distinguished regions. He 
was never disagreeable or conceited ; he merely 



The Upton Letters 127 

dropped his humble friends until they too were 
approved as worthy of greater distinction, and 
then he took them up again. He succeeded in 
his ambitions, as most cool and clear-headed per- 
sons do. He became what would be called very 
popular ; he gave himself no airs ; he was always 
good company ; he was never satirical or critical. 
The same thing has gone on ever since. He 
married a nice wife ; he secured a good official 
position. Last night, as I say, I met him here. 
He came into the room with the same old pleasant 
smile, beautifully dressed, soberly appointed. 
His look and gestures were perfectl}^ natural and 
appropriate. He has never made any attempt to 
see me or keep up old acquaintance ; but here, 
where I have a certain standing and position, it 
was obviously the right thing to treat me with 
courteous deference. He came up to me with a 
genial welcome, and, but for a little touch of 
prosperous baldness, I could have imagined that 
he was hardly a day older than when he was a 
boy. He reminded me of some cheerful passages 
of boyhood ; he asked with kindly interest after 
my work ; he paid me exactl}^ the right compli- 
ments ; and I became aware that I was, for the 
moment, one of the pawns in his game, to be 



128 The Upton Letters 

delicately pushed about where it suited him. We 
talked of other matters ; he held exactly the right 
political opinions, a mild and cautious liberalism ; 
he touched on the successes of certain politicians 
and praised them appropriately ; he deplored the 
failure of certain old friends in political life. " A 
very good fellow," he said of Hughes, " but just 
a little — what shall I say ? — impracticable ? ' ' He 
had seen all the right plays, heard the right 
music, read the right books. He deplored the 
obscurity of George Meredith, but added that he 
was an undoubted genius. He confessed himself 
to be an ardent admirer of Wagner ; he thought 
Klgar a man of great power ; but he had not 
made up his mind about Strauss. I found that 
'' not making up his mind about " a person was 
one of his favourite expressions. If he sees 
that some man is showing signs of vigour and 
originality in any department of life, he keeps his 
eye upon him ; if he passes safely through the 
shallows, he praises him, saying that he has 
watched his rise ; if he fails, our friend will be 
ready with the reasons for his failure, adding that 
he always feared that so-and-so was a little 
unpractical. 
I can't describe to you the dreariness and 



The Upton Letters 1,29 

oppression that fell upon me. The total absence 
of generosity, of independent interest, weighed on 
my soul. The one quality that this equable and 
judicious critic was on the look-out for was the 
power of being approved. Foster's view seemed 
to knock the bottom out of life, to deprive every- 
thing equally of charm and individuality. 

The conversation turned on golf, and one of the 
guests, whom I am shortly about to describe, said 
bluffly that he considered golf and drink to be 
the two curses of the country. Our polite friend 
turned courteously towards him, treated the re- 
mark as an excellent sally, and then said that he 
feared he must himself plead guilty to a great de- 
votion to golf. " You see all kinds of pleasant 
people," he said, " in such a pleasant way ; and 
then it tempts one into the open air ; and it is 
such an excellent investment, in the way of ex- 
ercise, for one's age ; a man can play a very de- 
cent game till he is sixty — though, of course, it is 
no doubt a little overdone." We all felt that he 
was right; he took the rational, the sensible view ; 
but it tempted me, though I successfully resisted 
the temptation, to express an exaggerated dislike 
of golf which I do not feel. 

The guest whose remark had occasioned this 
9 



I30 The Upton Letters 

discourse is one of my colleagues, Murchison by 
name — you don't know him — a big, rugged, shy, 
sociable fellow, who is in many ways one of the 
best masters here. He is always friendly, amus- 
ing, courteous. He holds strong opinions, which 
he does not produce unless the occasion demands 
it. He keeps a good deal to himself, follows his 
own pursuits, and knows his own mind. He is 
very tolerant, and can get on with almost every- 
body. The boys respect him, like his teaching, 
think him clever, sensible, and amusing. There 
are a great many things about which he knows 
nothing, and is always ready to confess his ignor- 
ance. But whenever he does understand a sub- 
ject, and he has a strong taste for art and letters, 
you always feel that his thoughts and opinions 
are fresh and living. They are not produced like 
sardines from a tin, with a painful similarity and 
regularity. He has strong prejudices, for which 
he can always give a reason ; but he is always 
ready to admit that it is a matter of taste. He 
does not tilt in a Quixotic manner at established 
things, but he goes along trying to do his work 
in the best manner attainable. He is no genius, 
and his character is by no means a perfect one ; 
he has pronounced faults, of which he is perfectly 



The Upton Letters 131 

conscious, and which he never attempts to dis- 
guise. But he is simple, straightforward, affec- 
tionate, and sincere. If he were more courageous, 
more fiery, he would be, I think, a really great 
man ; but this he somehow misses. 

The two men, Foster and Murchison, are as 
great a contrast as can well be imagined. They 
serve to illustrate exactly what I mean. Our 
friend Foster is perfectly correct and admirably 
pleasant. You would never think of confiding in 
him, or saying to him what you really felt ; but, 
on the other hand, there is no one whom I would 
more willingly consult in a small and delicate 
point of practical conduct — and his advice would 
be excellent. 

But Murchison is a real man ; he knows his 
limitations, but he takes nothing second-hand. 
He brings his own mind and character to bear on 
every problem, and judges people and things on 
their own merits. 

Of course, one does not desire that conventional 
people should strive after unconventionality. 
That produces the most sickening conventionality 
of all, because it is merely an attempt to construct 
a pose that shall be accepted as unconventional. 
The only thing is to be natural ; and, after all, if 



132 The Upton Letters 

one merely desires to see how the cat jumps and 
then to jump after it, it is better to do so frankly 
and make no pretence about it. 

But I am sure that it is one's duty as a teacher 
to try to show boys that no opinions, no tastes, 
no emotions are worth much unless they are one's 
own. I suffered acutely as a boy from the lack 
of being shown this. I found — I am now speak- 
ing of intellectual things — that certain authors 
were held up to me as models which I was un- 
fortunate enough to dislike. Instead of making 
up my own mind about it, instead of trying to see 
what I did admire and why I admired it, I tried 
feebly for years to admire what I was told was 
admirable. The result was waste of time and 
confusion of thought. In the same way, I followed 
feebl}^ as a boy, after the social code. I tried to 
like the regulation arrangements, and thought 
dimly that I was in some way to blame because I 
did not. Not until I went up to Cambridge did 
the conception of mental liberty steal upon me — 
and then only partly. Of course, if I had had 
more originality, I should have perceived this 
earlier. But the world appeared to me a great, 
organised, kindly conspiracy, which must be 
joined, in however feeble a spirit. I have learned 



The Upton Letters 133 

gradually that, after a decent compliance with 
superficial conventionalities, there are not only no 
penalties attached to independence, but that there, 
and there alone, is happiness to be found ; and 
that the rewards of a free judgment and an au- 
thentic admiration are among the best and highest 
things that the world has to bestow. . . . — 
Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, June i8, 1904. 
Dear Herbert, — I am sick at heart. I re- 
ceived one of those letters this morning which are 
the despair of most schoolmasters. I have in my 
house a boy aged seventeen, who is absolutely 
alone in the world. He has neither father nor 
mother, brother nor sister. He spends his holi- 
days with an aunt, a clever and charming person, 
but a sad invalid (by the way, in passing, what a 
wretched thing in English it is that there is no 
female of the word " man "; *' woman " means 
something quite different, and always sounds 
slightly disrespectful ; " lady " is impossible, ex- 
cept in certain antique phrases). The boy is frail, 
intellectual, ungenial. He is quite incapable of 
playing games decently, having neither strength 



134 The Upton Letters 

nor aptitude ; he finds it hard to make friends, and 
the consequence is that, like all clever people who 
don't meet with any success, he takes refuge in a 
kind of contemptuous cynicism. His aunt is de- 
voted to him and to his best interests, but she is 
too much of an invalid to be able to look after 
him ; the result is that he is allowed practically 
to do exactly as he likes in the holdiays ; he hates 
school cordially, and I don't wonder. He fortu- 
nately has one taste, and that is for science, and 
it is more than a taste, it is a real passion. He 
does not merely dabble about with chemicals, or 
play tricks with electricity ; but he reads dry, 
hard, abstruse science, and writes elaborate mono- 
graphs, which I read with more admiration than 
comprehension. This is almost his only hold on 
ordinary life, and I encourage it with all my 
might ; I ask about his work, make such sugges- 
tions as I can, and praise his successful experi- 
ments and his treatises, so far as I can understand 
them, loudly and liberally. 

This morning, one of his guardians writes to me 
about him. He is a country gentleman, with a 
large estate, who married a cousin of my pupil. 
He is a big, pompous, bumble-bee kind of man, 
who prides himself on speaking his mind, and is 



The Upton Letters 135 

quite unaware that it is only his position that 
saves him from the plainest retorts. He writes to 
say that he is much exercised about his ward's 
progress. The boy, he says, is fanciful and deli- 
cate, and has much too good an opinion of him- 
self. That is true ; and he goes on to lay down 
the law as to what he "needs." He must be 
thrown into the society of active and vigorous 
boys ; he must play games ; he must go to the 
gymnasium. And then he must learn self-reli- 
ance ; he must not be waited upon ; he must be 
taught that it is his business to be considerate of 
others ; he must learn to be obliging, and to look 
after other people. He goes on to say that all he 
wants is the influence of a strong and sensible 
man (that is a cut at me), and he will be obliged 
if I will kindly attend to the matter. 

Well, what does he want me to do ? Does he 
expect me to run races with the boy ? to introduce 
him to the captain of the Eleven ? To have him 
thrust into teams of cricket and football from 
which his incapacity for all games naturally ex- 
cludes him ? When our bumble-bee friend was at 
school himself — and a horrid boy he must have 
been — what would he have said if a master had 
told him to put a big, clumsy, and incapable boy 



136 The Upton Letters 

into a house cricket eleven in order to bring him 
out? 

Then as to teaching him to be considerate, the 
mischief is all done in the holidays ; the boy is 
not waited on here, and he has plenty of vigorous 
discipline in the kind of barrack life the boys lead. 
Does he expect me to march into the boy's home, 
and request that the boy may black his own boots 
and carry up the coals ! 

The truth is that the man has no real policy ; 
he sees the boy's deficiencies, and liberates his 
mind by requesting me, as if I were a kind of 
tradesman, to see that they are corrected. 

Of course, the temptation is to write the man an 
acrimonious letter, and to point out the idiotic 
character of his suggestions. But that is worse 
than useless. 

What I have done is to write and say that I 
have received his kind and sensible letter, that he 
has laid his- finger on the exact difficulties, and 
that naturally I am anxious to put them straight. 
I then added that his own recollection of his 
school-days will show that one cannot help a boy 
in athletic or social matters beyond a certain point, 
that one can only see that a boy has a fair chance, 
and is not overlooked, but that other boys would 



The Upton Letters 137 

not tolerate (and I know that he does not mean 
to suggest this) that a boy should be included in 
a team for which he is unfit, simply in order that 
his social life should be encouraged. I then point 
out that as to discipline there is no lack of it here ; 
and that it is only at home that he is spoiled ; and 
that I hope he will use his influence, in a region 
where I cannot do more than make suggestions, 
to minimise the evil. 

The man will approve of the letter ; he will 
think me sensible and himself extraordinarily 
wise. 

Does that seem to you to be cynical? I don't 
think it is. The man is sincerely anxious for the 
boj^'s welfare, just as I am, and we had better 
agree than disagree. The fault of his letter is 
that it is stupid, and that it is offensive. The 
former quality I can forgive, and the latter is only 
stupidity in another form. He thinks in his own 
mind that if I am paid to educate the boy I ought 
to be glad of advice, that I ought to be grateful to 
have things that I am not likely to detect for my- 
self pointed out by an enlightened and benevolent 
man. 

Meanwhile I shall proceed to treat the boy on 
my own theory. I don't expect him to play 



138 The Upton Letters 

games ; I don't think that it is, humanly speak- 
ing, possible to expect a sensitive, frail boy to 
continue to play a game in which he only makes 
himself ridiculous and contemptible from first to 
last. Of course, if a boy who is incapable of suc- 
cess in athletics does go on playing games perse- 
veringly and good-humouredly, he gets a splendid 
training, and, as a rule, conciliates respect. But 
this boy could not do that. 

Then I shall try to encourage the boy in any 
taste he may exhibit, and try to build up a real 
structure on these slender lines. The great point 
is that he shall have some absorbing and whole- 
some instinct. He will be wealthy, and in a 
position to gratify any whim. He is not in the 
least likely to do anything foolish or vicious — he 
has not got the animal spirits for that. I shall 
encourage him to take up politics ; and I shall tr}^ 
to put into his head a desire to do something for 
his fellow-creatures, and not to live an entirely 
lonely and self-absorbed life. 

I have a theory that in education it is better to 
encourage aptitudes than to try merely to correct 
deficiencies. One can't possibly extirpate weak- 
nesses by trying to crush them. One must build 
up vitality and interest and capacity. It is like 



The Upton Letters 139 

the parable of the evil spirits. It is of no use 
simply to cast them out and leave the soul empty 
and swept ; one must encourage some strong, 
good spirit to take possession ; one must build on 
the foundations that are there. 

The boy is delicate-minded, able, and intelli- 
gent ; he is an interesting companion, when he 
is once at his ease. If only this busy, fussy, 
hearty old bore would leave him alone! What 
I am afraid of his doing is of his getting the 
boy to stay with him, making him to go out 
hunting, and laughing mercilessly at his tumbles. 
The misery that a stupid, genial man can inflict 
upon a sensitive boy like this is dreadful to 
contemplate. 

At the end of the half, I shall write a letter about 
the boy's work, and delicately hint that, if he is 
encouraged in his subject, he may attain high 
distinction and eventually rise to poHtical or scien- 
tific eminence. The old bawler will take the fly 
with a swirl— see if he does not ! And, if I can 
secure an interview with him, I will wager that 
my triumph will be complete. 

Does all this seem very dingy to you, my dear 
Herbert? You have never had to deal with tire- 
some, stupid people in a professional capacity, 



I40 The Upton Letters 

you see. There is a distinct pleasure in getting 

one's own way, in triumphing over an awkward 

situation, in leading an old buffer by the nose to 

do the thing which you think right, and to make 

him believe that you are all the time following his 

advice and treasuring up his precepts. But I can 

honestly say that my chief desire is not to amuse 

myself with this kind of diplomacy, but the real 

welfare of the child. I know you will believe 

that. — Kver yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, June 25, 1904. 

Dkar Hkrbkr'T, — This is not a letter ; it is a 
sketch, an aquarelle out of my portfolio. 

Yesterday was a hot, heavy, restless day, with 
thunder brewing in the dark heart of huge inky 
clouds; a day when one craves for light, and brisk 
airs, and cold bare hill-tops ; when one desires to 
get away from one's kind, away from close rooms 
and irritable persons. So I went off on m)^ pa- 
tient and uncomplaining bicycle, along a country 
road; and then crossing a wide common, like the 
field, I thought, in the Pilgrim' s Progress across 
which Evangelist pointed an improving finger, I 
turned down to the left to the waterside. In the 
still air, that seemed to listen, the blue wooded 



The Upton Letters 141 

hills across the river had a dim, rich beauty. 
How mysterious are the fields and heights from 
which one is separated by a stream, the fields in 
which one knows every tree and sloping lawn by 
sight, and where one sets foot so rarely ! The 
road came to an end in a little grassy space among 
high-branching elms. On my left was a farm, 
with barns and byres, overhung by stately walnut 
trees ; on the right a grange among its great 
trees, a low tiled house, with white casements, in 
a pleasant garden, full of trelHsed roses, a big 
dove-cote, with a clattering flight of wheeling 
pigeons circling round and round. Hard by, 
close to the river, stands a little ancient church, 
with a timbered spire, the trees growing thickly 
about it, dreaming forgotten dreams. 

Here all was still and silent ; the very children 
moved languidly about, not knowing what ailed 
them. Far off across the wide-watered plain 
came a low muttering of thunder, and a few big 
drops pattered in the great elms. 

This secluded river hamlet has an old history ; 
the church, which is served from a distant parish, 
stands in a narrow strip of land which runs down 
across the fields to the river, and dates from the 
time when the river was a real trade-highway, 



142 The Upton Letters 

and when neighbouring parishes, which had no 
frontages on the stream, found it convenient to 
have a wharf to send their produce, timber or 
bricks, away by water. But the wharf has long 
since perished, though a few black stakes show 
where it stood ; and the village, having no land- 
ing-place and no inn, has dropped out of the river 
life, and minds its own quiet business. 

A few paces from the church the river runs 
silently and strongly to the great weir below. 
To-day it was swollen with rain and turbid, and 
plucked steadily at the withies. To-day the 
stream, which is generally full of life, was almost 
deserted. But it came into my head what an 
allegory it made. Here through the unvisited 
meadows, with their huge elms, runs this thin 
line of glittering vivid life ; you hear, hidden in 
dark leaves, the plash of oars, the grunt of row- 
locks, and the chatter of holiday folk, to whom 
the river-banks are but a picture through which 
they pass, and who know nothing of the quiet 
fields that surround them. That, I thought, fol- 
lowing a train of reflection, is like life itself, mov- 
ing in its bright, familiar channel, so unaware of 
the broad tracts of mystery that hem it in. May 
there not be presences, unseen, who look down 



The Upton Letters 143 

wondering — as I look to-day through my screen 
of leafy boughs— on the busy-peopled stream that 
runs so merrily between its scarped banks of clay ? 
I know not ; yet it seems as though it might 
be so. 

Beneath the weir, with its fragrant, weedy 
scent, where the green river plunges and whitens 
through the sluices, lies a deep pool, haunted by 
generations of schoolboys, who wander, flannelled 
and straw-hatted, up through the warm meadows 
to bathe. In such sweet memories I have my 
part, when one went riverwards with some chosen 
friend, speaking with the cheerful frankness of 
boyhood of all our small concerns, and all we 
meant to do ; and then the cool grass under the 
naked feet, the delicious recoil of the fresh, ting- 
ling stream, and the quiet stroll back into the 
ordered life so full of simple happiness. 

"Ah ! happy fields, ah ! pleasing shade, 
Ah ! fields beloved in vain ! " 

sang the sad poet of Eton— but not in vain, I 
think, for these old beautiful memories are not 
sad ; the good days are over and gone, and they 
cannot be renewed ; but they are like a sweet 
spring of youth, whose waters fail not, in which 



144 The Upton Letters 

a tired soul may bathe and be clean again. They 
may bring back 

" The times when I remember to have been 
Joyful, and free from blame." 

To be pensive, not sentimental, is the joy of 
later life. The thought of the sweet things that 
have had an end, of life lived out and irrevocable, 
is not a despairing thought, unless it is indulged 
with an unavailing regret. It is rather to me a 
sign that, whatever we may be or become, we are 
surrounded with the same quiet beauty and peace, 
if we will but stretch out our hands and open our 
hearts to it. To grow old patiently and bravely, 
even joyfully — that is the secret ; and it is as idle 
to repine for the lost joys as it would have been in 
the former days to repine because we were not 
bigger and stronger and more ambitious. lyife, 
if it does not become sweeter, becomes more in- 
teresting; fresh ties are formed, fresh paths open 
out ; and there should come, too, a simple serenity 
of living, a certainty that, whatever befall, we 
are in wise and tender hands. 

So I reasoned with myself beside the little holy 
church, not far from the moving stream. 

But the time warned me to be going. The 



The Upton Letters 145 

thunder had drawn off to the west ; a faint breeze 
stirred and whispered in the elms. The day de- 
cHned. But I had had my moment, and my heart 
was full ; for it is such moments as these that 
are the pure gold of life, when the scene and the 
mood move together to some sweet goal in perfect 
unison. Sometimes the scene is there without 
the mood, or the mood comes and finds no fitting 
pasturage ; but to-day, both were mine ; and the 
thought, echoing like a strain of rich sad music, 
passed beyond the elms, beyond the blue hills, 
back to its mysterious home. . 

There, that is the end of my sketch ; a little 
worked up, but substantially true. Tell me if 
you like the kind of thing ; if you do, it is rather 
a pleasure to write thus occasionally. But it may 
seem to you to be affected, and, in that case, I 
won't send you any more of such reveries. 

You seem very happy and prosperous ; but then 
you like heat, and enjoy it like a lizard. My 
love to all of you. — E^ver yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, July i, 1904. 
Dkar He^rbkrt,— What you say about form- 
ing habits is very interesting. It is quite true 



146 The Upton Letters 

that one gets very little done without a certain 
method ; and it is equally true that, if one does 
manage to arrive at a certain definite programme 
for one's life and work, it is very easy to get a big 
task done. Just reflect on this fact ; it would not 
be difl&cult, in any life, to so arrange things that 
one could write a short passage every day, say 
enough to fill a page of an ordinary octavo. Well, 
if one stuck to it, that would mean that in the 
course of a year one would have a volume finished. 
Sometimes my colleagues express surprise that I 
can find time for so much literary work ; and on 
the other hand, if I tell them how much time I am 
able to devote to it, they are equally surprised that 
I can get anything done, because it seems so little. 
This is the fact ; I can get an hour — possibly two 
— on Tuesday, two hours on Thursday, one on 
Friday, two on Saturday, and one or two on Sun- 
day — nine hours a week under favourable circum- 
stances, and never a moment more. But writing 
being to me the purest pleasure and refreshment, 
I never lose a minute in getting to work, and I 
use every moment of the time. That does not in- 
clude reading ; but by dint of having books about, 
and by working carefully, so that I do not need 
to go over the same ground twice, I get through 



The Upton Letters 147 

a good deal in a week. I have trained myself, 
too, to be able to write at full speed when I am at 
work, and I can count on writing three octavo 
pages in an hour, or even four. The result is, as 
you will see, that in a term of twelve weeks, I 
can turn out between three and four hundred 
pages. The curious thing is that I do better 
original work in the term-time than in the holi- 
days. I think the pressure of a good deal of 
mechanical work, not of an exhausting kind, 
clears the brain and makes it vigorous. Of course 
it is rather scrappy work ; but I lay my plans 
in the holidays, make my skeleton, and work 
up my authorities ; and so I can go ahead at full 
steam. 

But I have strayed away from the subject of 
habits ; and the moral of the above is only that 
habits are easy enough if you like the task 
enough. If I did not care for writing, I should 
find abundance of excellent reasons why I should 
not do it. 

Pater says somewhere that forming habits is 
failure in life ; by which I suppose he means that 
if one gets tied down to a petty routine of one's 
own, it generally ends in one's becoming petty 
too — narrow-minded and conventional. I don't 



148 The Upton Letters 

suppose he referred to method, because he was 
one of the most methodical of men. He wrote 
down sentences that came into his mind, scattered 
ideas, on small cards ; when he had a suflQcient 
store of these, he sorted them and built up his 
essay out of them. 

But I am equally aware that habit is apt to be- 
come very tyrannical indeed, if it is acquired. In 
my own case, I have got into the habit of writing 
only between tea and dinner, owing to its being 
the only time at my disposal, so that I can hardly 
write at any other time ; and that is inconvenient 
in the holidays. Moreover, I like writing so 
much, enjoy the shaping of sentences so in- 
tensely, that I intend to arrange my day in the 
holidays entirely with a view to having these 
particular hours free for writing ; and thus for a 
great part of the year I lose the best and most en- 
joyable part of the day, the sweet summer even- 
ings, when the tired world grows fragrant and 
cool. 

One ought to have a routine for home life cer- 
tainly ; but it is not wholesome when one begins 
to grudge the slightest variation from the pro- 
gramme. I speak philosophically, because I am 
in the grip of the evil myself. The reason why I 



The Upton Letters 149 

care so little for staying anywhere, and even for 
travelling, is because it disarranges my plan of the 
day, and I don't feel certain of being able to 
secure the time for writing which I love. But 
this is wrong ; it is vivendi perdere causas, and I 
think Vv^e ought resolutely to court a difference of 
life at intervals, and to learn to bear with equa- 
nimity the suspension of one's daily habits. You 
are certainly wise, if you find it suits you, to 
secure the morning for writing. Personally my 
mind is not at its best then ; it is dulled and 
weakened by sleep, and it requires the tonic of 
routine work and bodily exercise before it ex- 
pands and flourishes. 

Another grievous tendency which grows on me 
is an incapacity for idleness. That will amuse 
you, when you remember the long evenings at 
Eton which we used to spend in vacant talk. I 
remember so well your saying after tea one even- 
ing, in that poky room of yours with the barred 
windows at the end of the upper passage, '* How 
delightful to think that there are four hours with 
nothing whatever to do ! " Do you remember, 
too, that night when we sat at tea, blissfully, 
wholesomely tired after a college match ? John 
and Kllen, those strange, gruff beings, came in to 



I50 The Upton Letters 

wash up, carrying that horrible, steaming can of 
tea-dregs in which our cups were plunged : they 
cleared the table as we sat ; it was over before 
six, and it was not till the prayer-bell rang at 
9.30 that we became aware we had sat the whole 
evening with the table between us ; What did 
we talk about ? I wish to Heaven I could sit and 
talk like that now ! That is another thing which 
grows upon me, my dislike of mere chatting : it 
is not priggish to say it, because I regret and 
abominate my stupidity in that respect. But 
there is nothing now which induces more rapid 
and more desperate physical fatigue than to sit 
still and know I have to pump up talk for an 
hour. 

The moral of this all is that you must take good 
care to form habits, and / must take care to un- 
form them. Vou must resist the temptation to 
read the papers, to stroll, to talk to your children ; 
and / must try to cultivate leisurely propensities. 
I think that, as a schoolmaster, one might do 
very good work as a peripatetic talker. I have a 
big garden here — to think that you have never 
seen it !— with a great screen of lilacs and some 
pleasant gravel walks. I never enter it, I am 
afraid. But if in the pleasant summer I could 



The Upton Letters 151 

learn the art of sitting there, of having tea there, 
and making a few boys welcome if they cared to 
come, it would be good for all of us, and would 
give the boys some pleasant memories. I don't 
think there is anything gives me a pleasanter 
thrill than to recollect the times I spent as a boy 
in old Hay ward's garden. He told me and 
Francis Howard that we might go and sit there 
if we liked. You were not invited, and I never 
dared to ask him. It was a pleasant little place, 
with a lawn surrounded with trees, and a sum- 
mer-house full of arm-chairs, with an orchard be- 
hind it — now built over. Howard and I used 
at one time to go there a good deal, to read and 
talk. I remember him reading Shakespeare's 
Somiets aloud, though I had not an idea what 
they were all about — but his rich, resonant voice 
comes back to me now ; and then he showed me a 
MS. book of his own poems. Ye Gods, how great 
I thought them! I copied many of them out and 
have them still. Hayward used to come strolling 
about ; I can see him standing there in a big 
straw hat, with his hands behind him, like the 
jolly old leisurely fellow he was. *' Don't get up, 
boys," he used to say. Once or twice he sat 
with us, and talked lazily about some book we 



152 The Upton Letters 

were reading. He never took any trouble to en- 
tertain us, but I used to feel that we were wel- 
come, and that it really pleased him that we cared 
to come. Now he lives in a suburb, on a pension; 
why do I never go to see him ? 

* * La, Perry, how yer do run on ! " as the 
homely Warden's wife said to the voluble Chap- 
lain. I never meant to write you such a letter ; 
but I am glad indeed to find you really settling 
down. We must cultivate our garden, as Voltaire 
said ; and I only wish that the garden of my own 
spirit were more full of '* shelter and fountains," 
and less stocked with long rows of humble vege- 
tables ; but there are a few flowers here and there. 

— Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Monk's Orchard, Upton, 

July II, 1904. 

My dkar Hkrbkrt, — I am going to pour 
out a pent-up woe, I have just escaped from a 
very fatiguing experience. I said good-bye this 
morning, with real cordiality, to a thoroughly 
uncongenial and disagreeable visitor. You will 
probably be surprised when I tell you his name, 
because he is a popular, successful, and, many 
people hold, a very agreeable man. It is that 



The Upton Letters 153 

ornament of the Bar, Mr. William Welbore, K. C. 
His boy is in my house ; and Mr. Welbore (who 
is a widower) invited himself to stay a Sunday 
with me in the tone of one who, if anything, con- 
fers a favour. I had no real reason for refusing, 
and, to speak truth, any evasion on my part 
would have been checked by the boy. 

It is a fearful bore here to have any one staying 
in the house at all, unless he is so familiar an old 
friend that you can dispense with all ceremony. I 
have no guest-rooms to speak of ; and a guest is 
always in my study when I want to be there, talk- 
ing when I want to work, or wanting to smoke at 
inconvenient times. One's study is also one's 
ofi&ce; boys keep dropping in, and, when I have 
an unperceptive guest, I have to hold interviews 
with boys wherever I can — in passages and be- 
hind doors. What made it worse was that it 
was a wet Sunday, so that my visitor sat with 
me all day, and I have no doubt thought he was 
enlivening a dull professional man with some full- 
flavoured conversation. Then one has to arrange 
for separate meals ; when I am alone I never, as 
you know, have dinner, but go in to the boys' 
supper and have a slice of cold meat. But on this 
occasion I had to have a dinner-party on Saturday 



154 The Upton Letters 

and another on Sunday ; and the breakfast hour, 
when I expect to read letters and the paper, was 
taken up with general conversation. I am 
ashamed to think how much discomposed I was ; 
but a schoolmaster is practically always on duty. 
I wonder how Mr. Welbore would have enjoyed 
the task of entertaining me for a day or two in 
his chambers ! But one ought not, I confess, to 
be so wedded to one's own habits ; and I feel, 
when I complain, rather like the rich gentleman 
who said to John Wesley, when his fire smoked, 
" These are some of the crosses, Mr. Wesley, that 
I have to bear." 

I could have stood it with more equanimity if 
only Mr. Welbore had been a congenial guest. 
But even in the brief time at my disposal, I grew 
to dislike him with an intensity of which I am 
ashamed. I hated his clothes, his boots, his eye- 
glass, the way he cleared his throat, the way he 
laughed. He is a successful, downright, blunt, 
worldly man, and is generally called a good fellow 
by his friends. He arrived in time for tea on Sat- 
urday ; he talked about his boy a little ; the man 
is in this case, unlike Wordsworth's hero, the 
father of the child ; and the boy will grow up ex- 
actly like him. Young Welbore does his work 



The Upton Letters 155 

punctually and without interest ; he plays games 
respectably ; he likes to know the right boys ; he 
is not exactly disagreeable, but he derides all 
boys who are in the least degree shy, stupid, or 
unconventional. He is quite a little man of the 
world, in fact. Well, I don't like that type of 
creature, and I tried to indicate to the father that 
I thought the boy was rather on the wrong lines. 
He heard me with impatience, as though I was 
bothering him about matters which belonged to 
my province ; and he ended by laughing, not 
very agreeably, and saying : " Well, you don't 
seem to have much of a case against Charlie ; he 
appears to be fairly popular. I confess that I 
don't much go in for sentiment in education ; if 
a boy does his work, and plays his games, and 
does n't get into trouble, I think he is on the 
right lines." And then he paid me an offensive 
compliment : " I hear you make the boys very 
comfortable, and I am sure I am obliged to you 
for taking so much interest in him." He then 
went off for a little to see the boy. He appeared at 
dinner, and I had invited two or three of the most 
intelligent of my colleagues. Mr. Welbore simply 
showed off. He told vStories ; he made mirthless 
legal jokes. One of my colleagues, Patrick, a 



156 The Upton Letters 

man of some originality, ventured to dispute an 
opinion of Mr. Welbore's, and Mr. Welbore turned 
him inside out, by a series of questions, as if he was 
examining a witness, in a good-natured, insolent 
way, and ended by saying : *' Well, Mr. Patrick, 
that sort of thing would n't go in a law-court, you 
know; you would have to know your subject better 
than that." I was not surprised, after dinner, at 
the alacrity with which my colleagues quitted the 
scene, on all sorts of professional excuses. Then 
Mr. Welbore sat up till midnight, smoking strong 
cigars, and giving me his ideas on the subject of 
education. That was a bitter pill, for he worsted 
me in every argument I undertook. 

Sunday was a nightmare day ; every spare mo- 
ment was given up to Mr. Welbore. I break- 
fasted with him, took him to chapel, took him to 
the boys' luncheon, walked with him, sat with 
him, talked with him. The strain was awful. The 
man sees everything from a different point of view 
to my own. One ought to be able to put up with 
that, of course, and I don't at all pretend that I 
consider my point of view better than his ; but I 
had to endure the consciousness that he thought 
his own point of view in all respects superior to 
mine. He thought me a slow-coach, an old-maid, 



The Upton Letters 157 

a sentimentalist ; and I had, too, the galling feel- 
ing that on the whole he approved of a drudge like 
myself taking a rather priggish point of view, and 
that he did not expect a schoolmaster to be a man 
of the world, any more than he would have ex- 
pected a curate or a gardener to be. I felt that 
the man was in his way a worse prig even than I 
was, and even more of a Pharisee, because he 
judged everything by a certain conventional 
standard. His idea of life was a place where you 
found out what was the right thing to do ; and 
that if you did that, money and consideration, the 
only two things worth having, followed as a mat- 
ter of course. " Of course he 's not my sort," 
was the way in which he dismissed almost the 
only person we discussed whom I thoroughly ad- 
mired. So we went on ; and I can only say that 
the relief I felt when I saw him drive away on 
Monday morning was so great as almost to make 
it worth while having endured his visit. I think 
he rather enjoyed himself — at least he threatened 
to pay me another visit ; and I am sure he had 
the benevolent consciousness of having brought a 
breath of the big world into a paltry life. The 
big world ! what a terrible place it would be if it 
was peopled by Welbores ! My only consolation 



158 The Upton Letters 

is that men of his type don't achieve the great 
successes. They are very successful up to a cer- 
tain point ; they get what they w ant. Welbore 
will be a judge before long, and he has already 
made a large fortune. But there is a demand for 
more wisdom and generosity in the great places— 
at least I hope so. Welbore' s idea of the world 
is a pleasant place where such men as he can 
make money and have a good time. He thinks 
art, religion, beauty, poetry, music, all stuff. I 
would not mind that if only he did not know it 
was stuff. God forbid that we should pretend to 
enjoy such things if we do not — and, after all, the 
man is not a hypocrite. But his view is that any 
one who is cut in a different mould is necessarily 
inferior ; and what put the crowning touch to my 
disgust was that on Sunday afternoon we met a 
Cabinet Minister, who is a great student of litera- 
ture. He talked about books to Mr. Welbore, 
and Mr. Welbore heard him with respect, because 
the Minister was in the swim. He said afterwards 
to me that people's foibles were very odd; but he 
so far respected the Minister's success as to think 
that he had a right to a foible. He would have 
crushed one of my colleagues who had battled in 
the same way, with a laugh and a few ugly words. 



The Upton Letters 159 

Well, let me dismiss Mr. Welbore from my 
mind. The worst of it is that, though I don't 
agree with him, he has cast a sort of blight on my 
mind. It is as though I had seen him spit on the 
face of a statue that I loved. I don't like vice 
in any shape ; but I equally dislike a person 
who has a preference for manly vices over senti- 
mental ones ; and the root of Mr. Welbore' s dis- 
like of vice is simply that it tends to interfere 
with the hard sort of training which is necessary 
for success. 

Mr. Welbore, as a matter of fact, seems to me 

really to augur worse for the introduction of the 

kingdom of heaven upon earth than any number 

of drunkards and publicans. One feels that the 

world is so terribly strong, stronger even than sin; 

and what is worse, there seems to be so little in 

the scheme of things that could ever give Mr. 

Welbore the lie.— Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, July i6, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — I declare that the greatest 
sin there is in the world is stupidity. The char- 
acter that does more harm in the world than any 
other is the character in which stupidity and 
virtue are combined. I grow every day more 



i6o The Upton Letters 

despondent about the education we give at our 
so-called classical schools. Here, you know, we 
are severely classical ; and to have to administer 
such a system is often more than I can bear with 
dignity or philosophy. One sees arrive here every 
year a lot of brisk, healthy boys, with fair intelli- 
gence, and quite disposed to work ; and at the 
other end, one sees depart a corresponding set of 
young gentlemen who know nothing, and can do 
nothing, and are profoundly cynical about all in- 
tellectual things. And this is the result of the 
meal of chaff we serve out to them week after 
week; we collect it, we chop it up, we tie it up in 
packets ; we spend hours administering it in tea- 
spoons, and this is the end. I am myself the 
victim of this kind of education ; I began lyatin 
at seven and Greek at nine, and, when I left 
Cambridge, I did not know either of them well. 
I could not sit in an arm-chair and read either a 
Greek or a Latin book, and I had no desire to do 
it. I knew a very little French, a very little 
mathematics, a very little science; I knew no his- 
tory, no German, no Italian. I knew nothing of 
art or music; my ideas of geography were child- 
ish. And yet I am decidedly literary in my 
tastes, and had read a lot of English for myself. 



The Upton Letters i6i 

It is nothing short of infamous that any one 
should, after an elaborate education, have been so 
grossly uneducated. My only accomplishment 
was the writing of rather pretty Latin verse. 

And yet this preposterous system continues 
year after year. I had an animated argument 
with some of the best of my colleagues the other 
day about it. I cannot tell you how profoundly 
irritating these wiseacres were. They said all 
the stock things— that one must lay a foundation, 
and that it could only be laid by using the best 
literatures ; that Latin was essential because it 
lay at the root of so many other languages ; and 
Greek, because there the human intellect had 
reached its high-water mark, — ** and it has such 
a noble grammar," one enthusiastic Grecian said ; 
that an active-minded person could do all the rest 
for himself. It was in vain to urge that in many 
cases the whole foundation was insecure ; and 
that all desire to raise a superstructure was elimi- 
nated. My own belief is that Greek and Latin 
are things to be led up to, not begun with ; that 
they are hard, high literatures, which require an 
initiation to comprehend ; and that one ought to 
go backwards in education, beginning with what 
one knows. 



i62 The Upton Letters 

It seems to me, to use a similitude, that the 
case is thus. If one lives in a plain and wishes 
to reach a point upon a hill, one must make a 
road from the plain upwards. It will be a road 
at the base, it will be a track higher up, and a 
path at last, used only by those who have busi- 
ness there. But the classical theorists seem to me 
to make an elaborate section of macadamised road 
high in. the hills, and, having made it, to say that 
the people who like can make their own road in 
between. 

How would I mend all this ? Well, I would 
change methods in the first place. If one wanted 
to teach a boy French or German effectively, so 
that he would read and appreciate, one would dis- 
pense with much of the grammar, except what was 
absolutely necessary. In the case of classics, it is 
all done the other way ; grammar is a subject in 
itself ; boys have to commit to memory long lists 
of words and forms which they never encounter ; 
they have to acquire elaborate analyses of differ- 
ent kinds of usages, which are of no assistance in 
dealing with the language itself. It is beginning 
with the wrong end of the stick. Grammar is the 
scientific or philosophical theory of language ; it 
may be an interesting and valuable study for a 



The Upton Letters 163 

mind of strong calibre, but it does not help one to 
understand an author or to appreciate a style. 

Then, too, I would sweep away for all but 
boys of special classical ability most kinds of 
composition. Fancy teaching a boy side by side 
with the elements of German or French to com- 
pose German and French verse, heroic, Alexan- 
drine, or lyrical ! The idea has only to be stated 
to show its fatuity. I would teach boys to write 
lyatin prose, because it is a tough subject, and it 
initiates them into the process of disentangling 
the real sense of the English copy. But I would 
abolish all Latin verse composition, and all Greek 
composition of every kind for mediocre boys. 
Not only would they learn the languages much 
faster, but there would be a great deal of time 
saved as well. Then I would abolish the absurd 
little lessons, with the parsing, and I would at all 
hazards push on till they could read fluently. 

Of course, the above improvement of methods 
is sketched on the hypothesis that both Greek 
and Latin are retained. Personally I would re- 
tain Latin for most, but give up Greek altogether 
in the majority of cases. I would teach all boys 
French thoroughly. I would try to make them 
read and write it easily, and that should be the 



164 The Upton Letters 

linguistic staple of their education. Then I would 
teach them history, mainly modern English his- 
tory, and modern geography; a very little mathe- 
matics and elementary science. Such boys would 
be, in my belief, well-educated ; and they would 
never be tempted to disbelieve in the usefulness 
of their education. 

When I propound these ideas, my colleagues 
talk of soft options, and of education without 
muscle or nerve. My retort is that the majority 
of boys educated on classical lines are models of 
intellectual debility as it is. They are uninter- 
ested, cynical, and they cannot even read or write 
the languages which they have been so carefully 
taught. 

What I want is experiment of every kind ; but 
my cautious friends say that one would only get 
something a great deal worse. That I deny. I 
maintain that it is impossible to have anything 
worse, and that the majority of the boys we turn 
out are intellectually in so negative a condition 
that any change would be an improvement. 

But I effect nothing ; nothing is attempted, 
nothing done. I do my best — fortunately our 
system admits of that — to teach my private pupils 
a little history, and I make them write essays. 



The Upton Letters 165 

The results are decidedly encouraging ; but mean- 
while my colleagues go on in the old ways, quite 
contented, pathetically conscientious, laboriously 
slaving away, and apparently not disquieted by 
results. 

I am very near the end of my tether — one can- 
not go on for ever administering a system in 
which one has lost all faith. If there were signs 
of improvement I should be content. If our 
headmaster would even insist upon the young 
men whom he appoints obtaining a competent 
knowledge of French and German before they 
come here it would be something, because then, 
when the change is made, there would be less 
friction. But even a new headmaster with liberal 
ideas would now be hopelessly hampered by the 
fact that he would have a staff who could not 
teach modern subjects at all, who knew nothing 
but classics, and classics only for teaching pur- 
poses. 

It does me good to pour out my woes to you ; I 
feel my position most acutely at this time of year, 
when the serious business of the place is cricket. 
In cricket, the boys are desperately and profoundly 
interested, not so much in the game, as in the 
social rewards of playing it well. And my 



i66 The Upton Letters 

worthy colleagues give themselves to athletics 
with an earnestness which depresses me into real 
dejection. One meets a few of these beloved men 
at dinner ; a few half-hearted remarks are made 
about politics and books; a good deal of vigorous 
gossip is talked ; but if a question as to the best 
time for net-practice, or the erection of a board for 
the purpose of teaching slip-catches is mentioned, 
a profound seriousness falls on the group. A 
man sits up in his chair and speaks with real con- 
viction and heat, with grave gestures. * * The 
afternoon," he says, '' is not a good time for nets ; 
the boys are not at their best, and the pros, are 
less vigorous after their dinner. Whatever ar- 
rangements are made as to the times for school, 
the evening must be given up to nets." 

The result is a pedantry, a priggishness, a so- 
lemnity about games which is simply deplorable. 
The whole thing seems to me to be distorted and 
out of proportion. I am one of those feeble peo- 
ple to whom exercise is only a pleasure and a 
recreation. If I don't like a game I don't play it. 
I do not see why I should be bored by my recrea- 
tions. An immense number of boys are bored by 
their games, but they dare not say so because 
public opinion is so strong. As the summer goes 



The Upton Letters 167 

on, they avail themselves of every excuse to give 
up the regular games ; and almost the only boys 
who persevere are boys who are within reach of 
some coveted " colour," which gives them social 
importance. What I desire is that boys should 
be serious about their work in a practical, busi- 
ness-like way, and amused by their games. As 
a matter of fact they are serious about games and 
profoundly bored by their work. The work is a 
relief from the tension of games, and if it were 
wholly given up, and games were played from 
morning to night, many boys would break down 
under the strain. I don't expect all the boys to 
be enthusiastic about their work ; all healthily 
constituted people prefer play to work, I myself 
not least. But I want them to believe in it and 
to be interested in it, in the way that a sensible 
professional man is interested in his work. What 
produces the cynicism about work so common in 
classical schools is that the work is of a kind 
which does not seem to lead anywhere, and 
classics are a painful necessity which the boys in- 
tend to banish from their mind as soon as they 
possibly can. 

This is a melancholy jeremiad, I am well 
aware ; but it is also a frame of mind which grows 



1 68 The Upton Letters 

upon me ; and, to come back to my original pro- 
position, it is the stupidity of virtuous men which 
is responsible for the continuance of this arid, 
out-of-joint system. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, July 22, 1904. 
My dkar Herbert, — ... I took a 
lonely walk to-day, and returned through a new 
quarter of the town. When I first knew it, thirty 
years ago, there was a single house here — an old 
farm, with a pair of pretty gables of mellow brick, 
and a weathered, solid, brick garden-wall that ran 
along the road ; an orchard below ; all round were 
quiet fields ; a fine row of elms stood at the end of 
the wall. It was a place of no great architectural 
merit, but it had grown old there, having been 
built with solidity and dignity, and having won 
a simple grace from the quiet influences of rain 
and wind and sun. Very gradually it became 
engulfed. First a row of villas came down to 
the farm, badly planned and coarsely coloured ; 
then a long row of yellow-brick houses appeared 
on the other side, and the house began to wear a 
shy, regretful air, like a respectable and simple per- 
son who has fallen into vulgar company. To-day 



The Upton Letters 169 

I find that the elms have been felled ; the old 
wall, so strongly and firmly built, is half down ; 
the little garden within is full of planks and heaps 
of brick, the box hedges trodden down, the flow- 
ers trampled underfoot ; the house itself is marked 
for destruction. 

It made me perhaps unreasonably sad. I know 
that population must increase, and that people 
had better live in convenient houses near their 
work. The town is prosperous enough ; there is 
work in plenty and good wages. There is no- 
thing over which a philanthropist and a social 
reformer ought not to rejoice. But I cannot help 
feeling the loss of a simple and beautiful thing, 
though I know it appealed to few people, and 
though the house was held to be inconvenient 
and out of date. I feel as if the old place must 
have acquired some sort of personality, and must 
be suffering the innocent pangs of disembodiment. 
I know that there is abundance of the same kind 
of simple beauty everywhere ; and yet I feel that 
a thing which has taken so long to mature, and 
which has drunk in and appropriated so much 
sweetness from the gentle hands of nature, ought 
not so ruthlessly and yet so inevitably to sufier 
destruction. 



I70 The Upton Letters 

But it brought home to me a deeper and a 
darker thing still — the sad change and vicissitude 
of things, the absence of an}' permanence in this 
life of ours. We enter it so gaily, and, as a child, 
one feels that it is eternal. That is in itself so 
strange — that the child himself, who is so late an 
inmate of the family home, so new a care to his 
parents, should feel that his place in the world is 
so unquestioned, and that the people and things 
that surround him are all part of the settled order 
of life. It was, indeed, to me as a child a strange 
shock to discover, as I did from old schoolroom 
books, that my mother herself had been a child 
so short a time before my own birth. 

Then life begins to move on, and we become 
gradually, very gradually, conscious of the swift 
rush of things. People round us begin to die, 
and drop out of their places. We leave old homes 
that we have loved. We hurry on ourselves from 
school to college ; we enter the world. Then, in 
such a life as my own has been, the lesson comes 
insistently near. Boys come under our care, little 
tender creatures ; a few days seem to pass and 
they are young and dignified men ; a few years 
later they return as parents, to see about placing 
boys of their own ; and one can hardly trace the 



The Upton Letters 171 

boyish lineaments in the firm-set, bearded faces 
of manhood. 

Then our own friends begin to be called awa}' ; 
faster and faster runs the stream ; anniversaries 
return with horrible celerity ; and soon we know 
that we must die. 

What is one to hold on to in such a swift flux 
of things? The pleasures we enjoy at first fade ; 
we settle down by comfortable firesides ; we pile 
the tables with beloved books ; friends go and 
come ; we acquire habits ; we find out our real 
tastes. We learn the measure of our powers. 
And 3^et, however simple and clear our routine 
becomes, we are warned every now and then by 
sharp lessons that it is all on sufferance, that we 
have no continuing city ; and we begin to see, 
some later, some earlier, that we must find some- 
thing to hold on to, something eternal and ever- 
lasting in which w^e can rest. There must be 
some anchor of the soul. And then I think that 
many of us take refuge in a mere stoical patience ; 
we drink our glass when it is filled, and if it 
stands empty we try not to complain. 

Now I am turning out, so to speak, the very 
lining of my mind to you. The anchor cannot be 
a material one, for there is no security there ; it 



1 72 The Upton Letters 

cannot be purely intellectual, for that is a shifting 
thing too. The well of the spirit is emptied, gradu- 
ally and tenderly ; we must find out what the 
spring is that can fill it up. Some would say that 
one's faith could supply the need, and I agree in 
so far as I believe that it must be a species of 
faith, in a life where our whole being and ending 
is such an impenetrable mystery. But it must be 
a deeper faith even than the faith of a dogmatic 
creed ; for that is shifting, too, every day, and the 
simplest creed holds some admixture of human 
temperament and human error. 

To me there are but two things that seem to 
point to hope. The first is the strongest and 
deepest of human things, the power of love — not, 
I think, the more vehement and selfish forms of 
love, the desire of youth for beauty, the consum- 
ing love of the mother for the infant — for these 
have some physical admixture in them. But the 
tranquil and purer manifestations of the spirit, the 
love of a father for a son, of a friend for a friend ; 
that love which can light up a face upon the edge 
of the dark river, and can smile in the very throes 
of pain. That seems to me the only thing which 
holds out a tender defiance against change and 
suffering and death. 



The Upton Letters 173 

And then there is the faith in the vast creative 
mind that bade us be ; mysterious and strange as 
are its manifestations, harsh and indifferent as 
they sometimes seem, yet at worst they seem to 
betoken a loving purpose thwarted by some swift 
cross-current, hke a mighty river contending with 
little obstacles. Why the obstacles should be 
there, and how they came into being, is dark in- 
deed. But there is enough to make us believe in 
a Will that does its utmost, and that is assured 
of some bright and far-off victory. 

A faith in God and a faith in L^ove ; and here 
seems to me to lie the strength and power of the 
Christian Revelation. It is to these two things 
that Christ pointed men. Though overlaid with 
definition, with false motive, with sophistry, with 
pedantry, this is the deep secret of the Christian 
Creed ; and if we dare to link our will with the 
Will of God, however feebly, however complain- 
ingly, if we desire and endeavour not to sin 
against love, not to nourish hate or strife, to hold 
out the hand again and again to any message of 
sympathy or trust, not to struggle for our own 
profit, not to reject tenderness, to believe in the 
good faith and the good-will of men, we are then 
in the way. We may make mistakes, we may 



174 The Upton Letters 

fail a thousand times, but the key of heaven is in 
our hands. . . . — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, July 29, 1904. 
Dear Herbert, — You must forgive me if this 
is a very sentimental letter, but this is the day 
that, of all days in the year, is to me most full of 
pathos — the last day of the summer half. My 
heart is like a full sponge and must weep a little. 
The last few days have been full to the brim of 
work and bustle — reports to be written, papers to 
be looked over. Yesterday was a day of sad 
partings. Half a dozen boys are leaving ; and I 
have tried my best to tell them the truth about 
themselves ; to say something that would linger 
in their minds, and yet to do it in a tender and 
affectionate way. And some of these boys' hearts 
are full to bursting too. I remember as if it were 
yesterday the last meeting at Eton of a Debating 
Society of which I was a member. We were 
electing new members and passing votes of 
thanks. Scott, who was then President and, as 
you remember. Captain of the Eleven, sat in his 
high chair above the table ; opposite him, with 
his minute-book, was Riddell, then Secretary — 



The Upton Letters 175 

that huge fellow in the Eight, you recollect. The 
vote of thanks to the President was carried ; he 
said a few words in a broken voice, and sat 
down; the Secretary's vote of thanks was pro- 
posed, and he, too, rose to make acknowledg- 
ment. In the middle of his speech, we were 
attracted by a movement of the President. He 
put his head in his hands and sobbed aloud. Rid- 
dell stopped, faltered, looked round, and leaving 
his sentence unfinished, sat down, put his face 
on the book and cried like a child. I don't think 
there was a dry eye in the room. And these boys 
were not sentimental, but straightforward young 
men of the world, honest, and, if anything, rather 
contemptuous, I had thought, of anything emo- 
tional. I have never forgotten that scene, and 
have interpreted many things in the light of it. 

Well, this morning I woke early and heard all 
the bustle of departure. Depression fell on me; 
soon I got up, with a blessed sense of leisure, 
breakfasted at my ease, saw one or two boys, 
special friends, who came to me very grave and 
wistful. Then I wrote letters and did business ; 
and this afternoon — it is fearfully hot — I have 
been for a stroll through the deserted fields and 
street. 



176 The Upton Letters 

So another of these beautiful things which we 
call the summer half is over, never to be renewed. 
There has been some evil, of course. I wish I 
could think otherwise. But the tone is good, and 
there have been none of those revelations of dark- 
ness that poison the mind. There has been idle- 
ness (I don't much regret that), and of course the 
usual worries. But the fact remains that a great 
number of happy, sensible boys have been living 
perhaps the best hours of their Hfe, with equal, 
pleasant friendships, plenty of games, some 
wholesome work and discipline to keep all sweet, 
with this exquisite background of old towers and 
high-branching elms, casting their shade over rich 
meadow-grass ; the scene will come back to these 
boys in weary hours, perhaps in sun-baked for- 
eign lands, perhaps in smoky offices — nay, even 
on aching deathbeds, parched with fever. 

The whole place has an incredibly wistful air, 
as though it missed the young life that circulated 
all about it ; as though it spread its beauties out 
to be used and enjoyed, and wondered why none 
came to claim them. As a counterpoise to this, 
I like to think of all the happiness flowing into 
hundreds of homes ; the father and mother wait- 
ing for the sound of the wheels that bring the boy 



The Upton Letters 177 

back ; the children who have gone down to the 
lodge to welcome the big brothers with shouts 
and kisses ; and the boy himself, with all the dear 
familiar scene and home faces opening out before 
him. We ought not to grudge the loneliness here 
before the thought of all those old and blessed 
joys of life that are being renewed elsewhere. 

But I am here, a lonely man, wondering and 
doubting and desiring I hardly know what. Some 
nearness of life, some children of my own. You 
are apt to think of yourself as shelved and iso- 
lated ; yet, after all, you have the real thing — 
wife, children, and home. But, in my case these, 
boys who are dear to me have forgotten me 
already. Disguise it as I will, I am part of the 
sordid furniture of life that they have so gladly 
left behind, the crowded corridor, the bare-walled 
schoolroom, the ink-stained desk. They are glad 
to think that they have not to assemble to-morrow 
to listen to my prosing, to bear the blows of the 
uncle's tongue, as Horace says. They like me 
well enough — for a schoolmaster ; I know some 
of them would even welcome me, with a timorous 
joy, to their ow^n homes. 

I have had the feeling of my disabilities brought 
home to me lately in a special way. There is a 



178 The Upton Letters 

boy in my house that I have tried hard to make 
friends with. He is a big, overgrown creature, 
with a perfectl}^ simple manner. He has in- 
numerable acquaintances in the school, but only 
a few friends. He is amiable with every one, but 
guards his heart. He is ambitious in a quiet way, 
and fond of books, and, being brought up in a 
cultivated home, he can talk more unaffectedly 
and with a more genuine interest about books 
than any boy I have ever met. Well, I have 
done my best, as I say, to make friends with him. 
I have lent him books ; I have tried to make him 
come and see me ; I have talked my best with 
him, and he has received it all with polite indif- 
ference : I can't win his confidence, somehow. I 
feel that if I were only not in the tutorial relation, 
it would be easy work. But perhaps I frightened 
him as a little boy, perhaps I bored him ; anyhow 
the advances are all on my side, and there seems 
a hedge of shyness through which I cannot break. 
Sometimes I have thought it is simply a case of 
''crabbed age and youth," and that I can't put 
myself sufficiently in line with him. I missed 
seeing him last night — he was out at some school 
festivity, and this morning he has gone without a 
word or a sign. I have made friends a hundred 



The Upton Letters 179 

times with a tenth of the trouble, and I suppose 
it is just because I find this child so difficult to ap- 
proach that I fret m3'self over the failure ; and all 
the more because I know in my heart that he is a 
really congenial nature, and that we do think the 
same about many things. Of course, most sens- 
ible people would not care a brass farthing about 
such an episode, and would succeed where I have 
failed, because I think it is the forcing of atten- 
tions upon him that this proud young person re- 
sents. I must try and comfort myself by thinking 
that my very capacity for vexing myself over the 
business is probably the very thing which makes 
it easy as a rule for me to succeed. 

Well, I must turn to my books and my bicycle 
and my writing for consolation, and to the blessed 
sense of freedom which luxuriates about my tired 
brain. But books and art and the beauties of 
nature, I begin to have a dark suspicion, are of 
the nature of melancholy consolations for the truer 
stuff" of life — for friendships and lovers and dearer 
things. 

I sit writing in my study, the house above me 
strangely silent. The evening sun lies golden on 
the lawn and among the apple-trees of my little 
orchard ; but the thought of the sweet time ended 



i8o The Upton Letters 

lies rather heavy on my heart— the wonder what 

it all means, why we should have these great 

hopes and desires, these deep attachments in the 

short days that God gives us. ' ' What a world it 

is for sorrow," wrote a wise and tender-hearted 

old schoolmaster on a day like this ; * ' and how 

dull it would be if there were no sorrow." I 

suppose that this is true ; but to be near things 

and yet not to grasp them, to desire and not to 

attain, and to go down to darkness in the end, 

like the shadow of a dream — what can heal and 

sustain one in the grip of such a mood ? — Ever 

yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, August 4, 1904. 
My dkar HkrbkrT, — I have just been over to 
Woodcote ; I have had a few days here alone at 
the end of the half, and was feehng so stupid and 
lazy this morning that I put a few sandwiches in 
my pocket and went off on a bicycle for the day. 
It is only fifteen miles from here, so that I had 
two or three hours to spend there. You know I 
was born at Woodcote and lived there till I was 
ten years old. I don't know the present owner 
of the Lodge, where we lived ; but if I had written 



The Upton Letters i8i 

and asked to go and see the house, they would 
have invited me to luncheon, and all my sense of 
freedom v^^ould have gone. 

It is thirty years since we left, and I have not 
been there, near as it is, for twenty years. I did 
not know how deeply rooted the whole scene was 
in my heart and memory, but the first sight of the 
familiar places gave me a very curious thrill, a 
sort of delicious pain, a yearning for the old days 
— I can't describe it or analyse it. It seemed 
somehow as if the old life must be going on there 
behind the pine woods if I could only find it ; as 
if I could have peeped over the palings and seen 
myself going gravely about some childish busi- 
ness in the shrubberies. I find that my memory 
is curiously accurate in some respects, and curi- 
ously at fault in others. The scale is all wrong. 
What appears to me in memory to be an immense 
distance, from Woodcote to Dewhurst, for in- 
stance, is now reduced to almost nothing ; and 
places which I can see quite accurately in my 
mind's eye are now so difierent that I can hardly 
believe that they were ever like what I recollect 
of them. Of course, the trees have grown im- 
mensely ; young plantations have become woods, 
and woods have disappeared. I spent my time in 



1 82 The Upton Letters 

wandering about, retracing the childish walks 
we used to take, looking at the church, the old 
houses, the village green, and the mill-pool. One 
thing came home to me very much. When I 
was born, my father had only been settled at 
Woodcote for two years ; but, as I grew up, it 
seemed to me we must have lived there for all 
eternity; now I see that he was only one in a long 
procession of human visitants who have inhabited 
and loved the place. Another thing that has 
gone is the mystery of it all. Then, every road 
was a little ribbon of familiar ground vStretching 
out to the unknown ; all the fields and woods 
which lay between the roads and paths were won- 
derful secret places, not to be visited. I find I 
had no idea of the lie of the ground, and, what is 
more remarkable, I don't seem ever to have seen 
the views of the distance with which the place 
now abounds. I suppose that when one is a small 
creature, palings and hedges are lofty obstacles ; 
and I suppose also that the little busy eyes are 
always searching the nearer scene for things to 
find, and do not concern themselves with what is 
far. The sight of the Lodge itself, with its long 
white front among the shrubberies and across the 
pastures was almost too much for me ; the years 



The Upton Letters 183 

seemed all obliterated in a flash, and I felt as if it 
was all there unchanged. 

I suppose I had a very happy childhood; but I 
certainly was not in the least conscious of it at the 
time. I was a very quiet, busy child, with all 
sorts of small secret pursuits of my own to attend 
to, to which lessons and social engagements were 
sad interruptions ; but now it seems to me like a 
golden, unruffled time full of nothing but pleasure. 
Curiously enough, I can't remember anything but 
the summer days there ; I have no remembrance 
of rain or cold or winter or leafless trees — except 
days of snow when the ponds were frozen and 
there was the wild excitement of skating. My 
recollections are all of flowers, and roses, and trees 
in leaf, and hours spent in the garden. In the 
very hot summer weather, my father and mother 
used to dine out in the garden, and it seems now 
to me as if they must have done so all the year 
round ; I can remember going to bed, with my 
window open on to the lawn, and hearing the 
talk, and the silence, and then the soft clink of 
the things being removed as I sank into sleep. It 
is a great mystery, that faculty of the mind for for- 
getting all the shadows and remembering nothing 
but the sunlight; it is so deeply rooted in humanity 



1 84 The Upton Letters 

that it is hard not to believe that it means some- 
thing ; one dares to hope that if our individual life 
continues after death, this instinct — if memory 
remains — will triumph over the past, even in 
the case of lives of sordid misery and hopeless 
pain. 

Then, too, one wonders what the strong instinct 
of permanence means, in creatures that inhabit 
the world for so short and troubled a space ; why 
instinct should so contradict experience ; why 
human beings have not acquired in the course of 
centuries a sense of the fleetingness of things. 
All our instincts seem to speak of permanence ; 
all our experience points to swift and ceaseless 
change. I cannot fathom it. 

As I wandered about Woodcote, my thoughts 
took a sombre tinge, and the lacrimcB rerum, the 
happy days gone, the pleasant groups broken up 
to meet no more, the old faces departed, the voices 
that are silent — all these thoughts began to weigh 
on my mind with a sad bewilderment. One feels 
so independent, so much the master of one's fate ; 
and yet when one returns to an old home, one be- 
gins to wonder whether one has any power of 
choice at all. There is this strange fence of self 
and identity drawn for me round one tiny body ; 



The Upton Letters 185 

all that is outside of it has no existence for me 
apart from consciousness. These are fruitless 
thoughts, but one cannot always resist them ; and 
why one is here, what these vivid feelings mean, 
what one's heart-hunger for the sweet world and 
for beloved people means —all this is dark and 
secret ; and the strong tide bears us on, out of 
the little harbour of childhood into unknown 
seas. 

Dear Woodcote, dear remembered days, beloved 
faces and voices of the past, old trees and fields ! 
I cannot tell what you mean and what you are ; 
but I can hardly believe that, if I have a life be- 
yond, it will not somehow comprise you all ; for 
indeed you are my own for ever ; you are myself, 
whatever that self may be. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

P. S. — By the way, I want you to do something 
for me ; I want a 7nap of your house and of the 
sitting-rooms. I want to see where you usually 
sit, to read or write. And more than that, I 
want a map of the roads and paths round about, 
with your ordinary walks and strolls marked 
in red. I don't feel I quite realise the details 
enough. 



1 86 The Upton Letters 

Shnnicotts, Honey Hii^i., Bast Grinstead, 

August 9, 1904. 

Dkar Hkrbkrt, — I am making holiday, with 
the voice of praise and thanksgiving, like the peo- 
ple in the Psalm, and working, oh ! how grate- 
fully, at one of my eternal books. Depend upon 
it, for simple pleasure, there is nothing like writ- 
ing. I am staying with Bradby, who has taken 
a cottage in Sussex. He has had his holiday, so 
that he goes up to town every day ; it does not 
sound very friendly to say that this arrangement 
exactly suits me, but so it is. I work and write 
in the morning, walk or bicycle in the afternoon, 
and then we dine together, and spend peaceful 
evenings, reading or talking. 

But this is not the point. I came in yesterday 
to tea, saw an unfamiliar hat in the hall, and 
found to my surprise James Cooper, whom you 
remember at Eton as a boy. I knew him a little 
there, and saw a good deal of him at Cambridge ; 
and we have kept up a very fitful correspondence 
at long intervals ever since. 

I am ashamed to confess that I was bored, 
though I trust to Heaven I did not show it ; I 
had come back from my ride brimming over with 
ideas, and was in the condition of a person who is 



The Upton Letters 187 

holding his breath, dying to blow it all out. 
Cooper said that he had heard that I was in the 
neighbourhood, and he had accordingly come 
over, a considerable distance, to see me. He is 
in business, and appears to be prospering. We 
had tea, and there was a good deal to talk about ; 
but Cooper showed no signs of moving, and said 
at last that he thought he would stay and see 
Bradby — perhaps dine with us. So we walked 
about the garden, and I gradually became aware, 
with regret and misery, that I was in the presence 
of a bore. Yes, James Cooper is a bore ! He had 
a great deal to say, mostly on subjects with which 
I w^as not acquainted. He has become a botan- 
ist, and seemed full to the brim of uninteresting 
information. He stayed till Bradby came, he 
dined, he talked. At last he decided he must go ; 
but he talked in the hall, he talked in the porch. 
He pressed us to come over and see him, and it 
was evidently a great pleasure to him to meet us 
again. Since his visit I have been pondering 
deeply. What is one's duty in these matters? 
How far ought loyalty to old friends to go ? I 
confess that I am somewhat vexed and dissatisfied 
with myself for not being more simply pleased to 
see an old comrade — adcB non alio rege puertice^ 



i88 The Upton Letters 

and all that. But what if the old comrade is a 
bore ? What are the claims of friendship on busy 
men ? I have a good many old friends in all parts 
of England — ought I to use my holidays in tour- 
ing about to see them ? I am inclined to think 
that I am not bound to do so. But suppose that 
Cooper goes away, and says to another friend that 
I am a man who forgets old ties ; that he took 
some trouble to see me, and found me absorbed, 
and not particularly glad to see him ? I hope, in- 
deed, that this was not his impression ; but bore- 
dom is a subtle thing, and it is difficult to keep it 
out of one's manner, however religiously one tries 
to be cheerful. Well, if he does feel thus, is he 
right and am I wrong ? His whole life lies on 
different lines to my own, and though we had 
much in common in the old pleasant days, we 
have not much in common now. It is quite pos- 
sible that he thinks I am a bore ; and it is even 
possible that he is right there too. But, que 
faire ? que penser f I can honestly say that if 
Cooper wanted my help, my advice, my sym- 
pathy, I would give it him without grudging. 
But is it a part of loyalty that I must desire to see 
him, and even to be bored by him ? I am inclined 
to think that if I had a simpler, more affectionate 



The Upton Letters 189 

nature, I should probably not be bored, but that 
in my gladness at the sight of an old friend and 
the reviving of old memories, the idea of criticism 
would die a natural death. 

What I have suffered from all my life is making 
friends too easily. It is so painful to me being 
with a person who seems to be dull, that I have 
always instinctively tried to be interested in, and 
to interest my companion. The result has been 
—I am making a very barefaced confession — that 
I have been often supposed to be more friendly 
than I really am, and to allow a certain claim of 
loyalty to be established which I could not sin- 
cerely sUvStain.— Kver yours, 

T. B. 

Knapstead Vicarage, Bai^dock, 

August 14, 1904. 

My dear Herbert, — A curious little incident 
occurred to me yesterday — so curious, so inex- 
plicable, that I cannot refrain from telling it to 
you, though it has no solution and no moral so 
far as I can see. I am staying with an old family 
friend, Duncan by name — you don't know him — 
who is a parson near Hitchin. We were to have 
gone for a bicycle ride together, but he was called 
away on sudden business, and as the only other 



I90 The Upton Letters 

member of the party is my friend's wife, who is 
much of an invalid, I went out alone. 

I went off through Baldock and Ashwell. And 
I must interrupt my story for a moment to tell 
you about the latter. Above a large hamlet of 
irregularly built and scattered white houses, many 
of them thatched, most of them picturesque, rises 
one of the most beautiful, mouldering church 
towers I have ever seen. It is more like a 
weather-worn crag-pinnacle than a tower ; it is of 
great height, and the dim and blurred outlines 
of its arched windows and buttresses communicate 
a singular grace of underlying form to the broken 
and fretted stone. I fear that it must before long 
be restored, if it is to hold together much longer ; 
all I can say is that I am thankful to have seen it 
in its hour of decay. It is infinitely patient and 
pathetic. Its solemn, ruinous dignity, its tender 
grace, make it like some aged and sanctified spirit 
that has borne calamity and misfortune with a 
sweet and gentle trust. A little farther on in the 
village is another extraordinarily beautiful thing. 
The road, while still almost in the street, passes 
across a little embankment ; and on the left hand 
you look down into a pit, like a quarry, full of 
ash- trees, and with a thick undergrowth of bushes 



The Upton Letters 191 

and tall plants. From a dozen little excavations 
leap and bicker crystal rivulets of water, hurrying 
down stony channels, uniting in a pool, and then 
moving off a full-fed stream, among quiet water- 
meadows. It is one of the sources of the Cam. 
The water is deliciously cool and clear, running 
as it does straight off the chalk. No words of 
mine can do justice to the wonderful purity and 
peace of the place. I found myself murmuring 
over those perfect lines of Marvel — you know 
them ? — 

** Might a soul bathe there and be clean, 
And slake its drought? " 

These two sights, the tower and the well-head, 
put my mind into tune ; and I went on my way 
rejoicing, with that delicate elation of spirit that 
rarely visits one. Everything I saw had an airy 
quality, a flavour, an aroma, I know not how to 
describe it. Now I caught the sunlight on the 
towering greenness of an ancient elm ; now a wide 
view over flat pastures, with a pool fringed deep 
in rushes, came in sight ; now an old manorial 
farm held up its lichened chimneys above a row 
of pollarded elms. I came at last, by lanes and 
byways, to a silent village that seemed entirely 



192 The Upton Letters 

deserted. The men, I suppose, were all working 
in the fields ; the cottage doors stood open ; near 
the little common rose an old high-shouldered 
church, much overgrown with ivy. The sun lay 
pleasantly upon its leaded roof, and among the 
grass-grown graves. I left my bicycle by the 
porch, and at first could not find an entrance ; 
but at last I discovered that a low, priest's door, 
that led into the chancel, was open. The church 
had an ancient and holy smell. It was very cool 
in there out of the sun. I turned into the nave, 
and wandered about for a few moments, noting 
the timbered roof, the remains of old frescoes on 
the walls ; the tomb of a knight who lay still and 
stiff, his head resting on his hand. I read an 
epitaph or two, with a faint cry of love and grief 
echoing through the stilted phraseology of the 
tomb, and then I went back to the altar. 

On a broad slab of slate, immediately below the 
altar steps, lay something dark ; I bent down to 
look at it, and then realised, with a curious sense 
of horror, that it was a little pool of blood ; beside 
it lay two large jagged stones, also stained with 
blood, which had dried into a viscous paste, upon 
them. It seemed as if the stoning of some martyr 
had taken place, and that, the first horrible vio- 



The Upton Letters 193 

lence done, the deed had l)een transferred to the 
open air. What made it still stranger to me was 
that in the east window was a rude representation 
of the stoning of Stephen ; and I have since dis- 
covered that the church is dedicated to him. 

I cannot give you the smallest hint of explana- 
tion. Indeed, pondering over it, I cannot con- 
ceive of any circumstances which can in any way 
account for what I saw. I wandered out into the 
churchyard — for the sight gave me a curious chill 
of horror— and I could see nothing that could 
further enlighten me. A few yards beyond stood 
the rectory, embowered in thickets. It seemed to 
be deserted ; the windows were dark and un- 
draped ; no smoke went up from the chimneys. 
It suddenly appeared to me that I must be the 
victim of some strange hallucination. So I 
stepped again within the church to see if my 
senses had played me false. But no ! there were 
the stones, and the blood beside them. 

The sun began to decline to his setting ; the 

shadows lengthened and darkened, as I rode 

slowly away, with a shadow on my spirit. I felt 

I had somehow seen a type, a mystery. These 

incidents do not befall one by chance, and I was 

sure, in some remote way, that I had looked, as it 
13 



194 The Upton Letters 

were, for a moment into a dark avenue of the 
soul ; that I was bidden to think, to ponder. 
These tokens of violence and death, the blood 
outpoured, in witness of pain, in the heart of the 
quiet sanctuary, before the very altar of the God 
of peace and love. What is it that we do that is 
like that? What is it that /do? I will not tell 
you how the message shaped itself for me ; per- 
haps you can guess ; but it came, it formed itself 
out of the dark, and in that silent hour a voice 
called sharply in my spirit. 

But I must not end thus. I came home ; I told 
my tale ; I found my friend returned. He nodded 
gravely and wonderingly, and I think he half un- 
derstood. But his wife was full of curiosity. She 
made me tell and retell the incident. ' ' Was there 
no one you could ask ? " she said ; *' I would not 
have rested till I had solved it. ' ' She even bade 
me tell her the name of the place, but I refused. 
" Do you mean to say you don't want to know ? " 
she said. ''No," I said; '' I had rather not 
know." To which, rather petulantly, she said, 
" Oh, you men ! " That evening a neighbouring 
parson, his wife, and daughter, came to dine. I 
was bidden to tell my story again, and the same 
scene was re-enacted. * * Was there no one you 



The Upton Letters 195 

could find to ask ? ' ' said the girl. I laughed and 
said, ** I dare say I could have found some one, 
but I did not want to know. I had rather have 
my little mystery," I added ; and then we men 
interchanged a nod, while the women looked 
sharply at each other. "Is it not quite incredi- 
ble ? " my friend's wife said. And the daughter 
added, " I, for one, will not rest till I have dis- 
covered. ' ' 

That, I suppose, is the difference between the 
masculine and the feminine mind. You will un- 
derstand me ; but read the story to your wife and 
daughters, and they will say, '* Was there no one 
he could have asked?" and, " I would not rest 
till I had discovered." Meanwhile I only hope 
that my maiden's efforts will prove unavailing. — 

Ever yours, 

T. B. 

GRE:eNHOWE, Sedbergh, 

August 21, 1904. 

My dear Herbert, — I suppose I am very 
early Victorian in my tastes ; but I have just been 
reading Jane Eyre again with intense satisfaction. 
(I will tell you presently why I have been reading 
it.) I read it first as a boy at Eton, and I must 
have read it twenty times since. I know that 



196 The Upton Letters 

much of it is grotesque, but it seems to me that 
its grotesqueness is not absurd, any more than 
the stiflf animals and trees or hills in the early 
Italian pictures are absurd ; one smiles, not con- 
temptuously, but tenderly at it all. 

Again, there are two ways of treating a work 
of art. If a portrait, for instance, is intensely 
realistic and true to its original, one says, ** How 
lifelike!" If it is widely unlike the original, 
one can always say, " How symbolical! " Of the 
first kind of portrait, one may say that it brings 
the man before you ; of the latter, you may say 
that the artist has striven to paint the soul rather 
than the body. Well, I think it is fair to call 
yane Eyre symbolical. Some of the people de- 
picted are very true to life. The old, comfortable, 
good-humoured housekeeper, Mrs. Fairfax ; Bes- 
sie the nursemaid ; Adele, the little French girl, 
Mr. Rochester's ward ; the two Rivers sisters — 
they are admirable portraits. But Mr. Rochester, 
the haughty Baroness Ingram of Ingram Park, 
Miss Ingram, who says to the footman, ** Leave 
that chatter, blockhead, and do my bidding," St. 
John Rivers, the blue-eyed fanatic — these are 
caricatures or types, according as you like to view 
them. To me they are types : characters finely 



The Upton Letters 197 

conceived, and only exaggerated because Char- 
lotte Bronte had never mixed with people of that 
species in ordinary life. But I think that one can 
see into the souls of these people in spite of the 
exaggerations of speech and gesture and be- 
haviour which disfigure them. Yet it is not 
primarily for the character-drawing that I value 
the book. What attracts me is the romance, the 
beauty, the poetry of the whole, and a special 
union of intellectual force, with passion at white 
heat, which breathes through them. The love 
scenes have the same strange glow that I always 
feel in Tennyson's *' Come into the garden, 
Maud," where the pulse of the lover thrills under 
one's hand with the love that beats from the heart 
of the world. And then, too, Charlotte Bronte 
seems to me to have had an incomparable gift 
of animating a natural scene with vivid human 
emotions. The frost-bound day, when the still 
earth holds its breath, when the springs are con- 
gealed, and the causeway is black with slippery 
ice, in that hour when Jane Eyre first sees Mr. 
Rochester ; and again the scene in the summer 
garden, just before the thunderstorm, when Mr. 
Rochester calls her to look at the great hawk- 
moth drinking from the flower chalice. Such 



tqS The Upton Letters 

scenes have a vitality that makes them as real to 
me as scenes upon which my own eyes have 
rested. 

Again, I know no writer who has caught the 
poetry of the hearth like Charlotte Bronte. The 
evening hours, when the fire leaps in the chim- 
ney, and the lamp is lit, and the homeless wind 
moans outside, and the contented mind possesses 
its dreams — I know nothing like that in any 
book. 

Indeed, I do not know any books which give 
me quite the sense of genius that Charlotte 
Bronte's bring me. I find it difficult to define 
where the genius lies ; but the love which she 
dares to depict seems to me to have a different 
quality to any other love ; it is the passionate 
ardour of a pure soul ; it embraces body, mind, 
and heart alike ; it is a love that pierces through 
all disguises, and is the worship of spirit for spirit 
at the very root of being ; such love is not lightly 
conceived or easily given ; it is not born of chance 
companionship, of fleshly desire, of a craving to 
share the happiness of a buoyant spirit of sun- 
shine and sweetness ; it is rather nurtured in 
gloom and sadness, it demands a corresponding 
depth and intensity, it requires to discern in its 



The Upton Letters 199 

lover a deep passion for the beauty of virtue. It 
is one of the triumphs of Jane Eyre that the love 
she feels for Mr. Rochester pierces through those 
very superficial vices which would be most ab- 
horrent to the pure nature, if it were not for the 
certainty that such vice was the disguise and not 
the essence of the soul. And here lies, I think, 
the uplifting hopefulness of Jane Eyre, the 
Christ-like power of recognising the ardent spirit 
of love behind gross faults of both the animal and 
the intellectual nature. 

I do not know if you ever came across a book — 
I must send it you if you have not seen it — which 
moves me and feeds my spirit more than almost 
any book I know — the Letters and yournals of 
Williain Cory. He was a master at Eton, you 
know, but before our time ; and his life was rather 
a disappointed one ; but he had that remarkable 
union of qualities which I think is very rare — hard 
intellectual force with passionate tenderness. I 
suppose that, as far as mental ability went, he 
was one of the very foremost men of his day. He 
had a faultless memory, great clearness and 
vigour of thought, and perfect lucidity of expres- 
sion. But he valued these gifts very little in 
comparison with feeling, which was his real life. 



200 The Upton Letters 

It always interests me deeply to find that he had 
the same opinion of Charlotte Bronte that I hold ; 
and indeed I have always thought that, allowing 
for a difference of nationality, he was very much 
the kind of man whom she depicted in Villette as 
Paul Emmanuel. 

Personality is, after all, the ultimate foundation 
of art, and I think that what I value most of all 
in Charlotte Bronte's books is the revelation of 
herself that they afford. The shy, frail, indomi- 
table, ardent creature, inured to poverty and 
hardness, without illusions, without material 
temptations, but all aglow with the sacred fire- 
such is the character that here emerges. Char- 
lotte Bronte as a writer seems to me like a burn- 
ing-glass which concentrates on one intense point 
the fiercest fire of the soul. I would humbly be- 
lieve that there is much of this spirit in the world, 
but that it seldom co-exists with the artistic 
power, the intellectual force, that enables it to 
express itself. 

And now I will tell you what has made me take 
up Jane Eyre again at this time. I was bicy- 
cling a day or two ago in a secluded valley under 
the purple heights of Ingleboro' . I passed a httle 
village, with a big building standing by a stream 



The Upton Letters 201 

below the road, called Lowood. It came into my 
head as a pleasant thought that some place like 
this might have been the scene of the schooldays 
of Jane Byre ; but I thought no more of it, till a 
Httle while after I saw a tablet in the wall of a 
house by the wayside. I dismounted, and be- 
hold ! it was the very place, the very building, 
where Charlotte Bronte spent her schooldays. It 
was a low, humble building, now divided into 
cottages. But you can still see the windows of 
the dormitory, the little kitchen garden, the 
brawling stream, the path across the meadows, 
and, beyond all, the long line of the moor. In a 
house just opposite was a portrait of Mr. Brockle- 
hurst himself (his real name was Cams- Wilson), 
so sternly, and I expect unjustly, gibbetted in the 
book. That was a very sacred hour for me. I 
thought of Miss Temple and Helen Burns ; I 
thought of the cold, the privation, the rigour of 
that comfortless place. But I felt that it was 
good to be there. I drew nearer in that hour to 
the unquenched spirit that battled so gloriously 
with life and with its worst terrors and sorrows, 
and that wrote so firmly and truly its pure hopes 
and immortal dreams. . . . — Ever yours, 

T. B. 



202 The Upton Letters 

ASHFIKI.D, SBTTi^e, August 27, 1904. 

Dear Herbert, — You ask me to send you out 
some novels, and you have put me in a difficulty. 
It seems hardly worth while sending out books 
which will just be read once or twice in a lazy 
mood and then thrown aside ; yet I can find no 
others. It seems to me that our novelists are at 
the present moment affected by the same wave 
which seems to be passing over the whole of our 
national life ; we have in every department a large 
number of almost first-rate people, men of talent 
and ability ; but very few geniuses, very few peo- 
ple of undisputed pre-eminence. In literature, 
this is particularly the case ; poets, historians, 
essayists, dramatists, novelists ; there are so 
many that reach a high level of accomplish- 
ment, and do excellent work ; but there are no 
giants, or they are very small ones. Personally, 
I do not read a great many novels ; and I find my- 
self tending to revert again and again to my old 
favourites. 

Of course there are some conspicuous novelists. 
There is George Meredith, though he has now 
almost ceased to write ; to speak candidly, though 
I recognise his genius, his creative power, his 
noble and subtle conception of character, yet I do 



The Upton Letters 203 

not feel the reality of his books ; or rather I feel 
that the reality is there, but disguised from me by 
a veil — a dim and rich veil, it is true— which is 
hung between me and the scene. The veil is 
George Meredith's personality. I confess that it 
is a dignified personality enough, the spirit of a 
gra?id seigfieur. But I feel in reading his books 
as if I were staying with a magnificent person in 
a stately house ; but that, when I wanted to go 
about and look at things for myself, my host, 
with splendid urbanity, insisted on accompanying 
me, pointed out objects that interested himself, 
and translated the remarks of the guests and the 
other people who appeared upon the scene into 
his own peculiar diction. The characters do not 
talk as I think they would have talked, but as 
George Meredith would have talked under the 
given circumstances. There is no repose about 
his books ; there is a sense not only of intellectual 
but actually of moral effort about reading them ; 
and further, I do not like the style ; it is highly 
mannerised, and permeated, so to speak, with a 
kind of rich perfume, a perfume which stupefies 
rather than enlivens. Even when the characters 
are making what are evidently to them perfectly 
natural and straightforward remarks, I do not 



204 The Upton Letters 

feel sure what they mean ; and I suffer from par- 
oxysms of rage as I read, because I feel that I 
cannot get at what is there without a mental 
agility which seems to me unnecessarily fatiguing. 
A novel ought to be like a walk ; George Mere- 
dith makes it into an obstacle race. 

Then, again, Henry James is an indubitably 
great writer ; though you amused me once by 
saying that you really had not time to read his 
later books. Well, for myself, I confess that his 
earlier books, such as Roderick Hudson and the 
Portrait of a Lady, are books that I recur to again 
and again. They are perfectly proportioned and 
admirably lucid. If they have a fault, and I do 
not readily admit it, it is that the characters are 
not quite full-blooded enough. Still, there is quite 
enough of what is called " virility " about in lit- 
erature ; and it is refreshing to find oneself in the 
company of people who preserve at all events the 
conventional decencies of life. But Henry James 
has in his later books taken a new departure ; he 
is infinitely subtle and extraordinarily delicate ; 
but he is obscure where he used to be lucid, and 
his characters now talk in so allusive and bird- 
like a way, hop so briskly from twig to twig, that 
one cannot keep the connection in one's mind. 



The Upton Letters 205 

He seems to be so afraid of anything that is ob- 
vious or plain-spoken, that his art conceals not 
art but nature. I declare that in his conversations 
I have not unfrequently to reckon back to see who 
has got the ball ; then, too, those long, closely 
printed pages, such as one sees in The Wings of 
a Dove, without paragraphs, without breathing 
places, pages of minute and refined analysis — 
there is a high intellectual pleasure in reading 
them, but there is a mental strain as well. It is 
as though one wandered in tortuous passages, full 
of beautiful and curious things, without ever 
reaching the rooms of the house. What I want, 
in a work of imagination, is to step as simply as 
possible into the presence of an emotion, the white 
heat of a situation. With Henry James I do not 
feel certain what the situation is. At the same 
time, his books are full of fine things ; he has 
learned a splendid use of metaphor, when the 
whole page seems, as it were, stained with some 
poetical thought, as though one had shut a fruit 
into the book, and its juice had tinted the whole 
of a page. But that is not sufficient ; and I confess 
I close one of his later volumes in a condition of 
admiring mystification. I do not know what it 
has all been about ; the characters have appeared, 



2o6 The Upton Letters 

have nodded and smiled inscrutably, have let fall 
sentences which seem like sparkling fragments of 
remarks ; I feel that there is a great conception 
behind, but I am still in the dark as to what it is. 

There are two or three other authors whose 
books I read with interest. One of these is John 
Oliver Hobbes. Her books do not seem to me to 
be exactly natural ; it is all of the nature of a 
scenic display. But there is abundance of nobility 
and even of passion ; and the style is original, 
nervous, and full of fine aphorisms. There is a 
feeling of high and chivalrous courage about her 
characters ; they breathe perhaps too lofty an air, 
and are, if anything, too true to themselves. But 
it is a dignified romance, rather mediaeval than 
modern, and penetrated with a pungent aromatic 
humour which has a quality of its own. 

Mrs. Humphry Ward is another writer whose 
books I always read. I am constantly aware of a 
great conscientiousness in the background. The 
scenery, the people, are all studied with the most 
sedulous and patient care; but I somehow feel, at 
all events in the earlier works, that the moral at- 
titude of the writer, a kind of Puritan agnostic- 
ism, interferes with the humanity of the books ; 
tbey seem to me to be as saturated with principle 



The Upton Letters 207 

as Miss Yonge's books, written from a very dif- 
ferent standpoint, were. I feel that I am not to 
be allowed my own preferences, and that to enjoy 
the books I must be in line with the authoress. 
Mrs. Ward's novels, in fact, seem to me the high- 
water mark of what great talent, patient observa- 
tion, and faithful work can do ; but the light does 
not quite shine through. Yet it is only just to 
say that every book Mrs. Ward writes seems an 
improvement on the last. There is a wider, 
larger, freer conception of life ; more reality, more 
humanity, as well as more artistic handling ; and 
they are worth careful reading ; I shall certainly 
include one or two in my consignment. 

George Moore seems to me to be one of the best 
writers on the stage. Esther Waters, Evelyn 
Innes, and Sister Theresa, are books of the highest 
quality. I have a sense in these books of absolute 
reality. I may think the words and deeds of the 
characters mysterious, surprising, and even some- 
times disgusting ; but they surprise and disgust 
me just as the anomalies of human beings affect 
me. I may not like them, but I do not question 
the fact that the characters spoke and behaved as 
they are supposed to behave. Moreover, Evelyn 
Innes and Sister Theresa are written in a style of 



2o8 The Upton Letters 

matchless lucidity and precision ; they have pas- 
sages of high poetry. Old Mr. Innes, with his 
tiresome preoccupations, his pedantic taste, his 
mediaeval musical instruments, affects me exactly 
as an unrelenting idealist does in actual life. The 
mystical Ulick has a profound charm ; the Sisters 
in the convent, all preoccupied with the same or 
similar ideas, have each a perfectly distinct indi- 
viduality. Evelyn herself, even with all her 
frank and unashamed sensuality, is a deeply at- 
tractive figure ; and I know no books which so 
render the evasive charm of the cloistered life. 
But George Moore has two grave faults ; he is 
sometimes vulgar and he is sometimes brutal. 
Evelyn's worldly lover is a man who makes one's 
flesh creep, and yet one feels he is intended to 
represent the fascination of the world. Then it 
does not seem to me to be true realism to depict 
scenes of frank animalism. Such things may oc- 
cur ; but the actors in such a carnival could not 
speak of them, even to each other ; it may be 
prudish, but I cannot help feeling that one ought 
not to have represented in a book what could not 
be repeated in conversation or depicted in a pic- 
ture. One may be plain-spoken enough in art, 
but one ought not to have the feeling that one 



The Upton Letters 209 

would be ashamed, in certain passages, to catch 
the author's eye. If it were not for these lapses, 
I should put George Moore at the head of all con- 
temporary novelists ; and I am not sure that I do 
not do so as it is. Do give them another trial ; I 
always thought you were too easily discouraged 
in your attempt to grapple with his books ; prob- 
ably mj^ admiration for them only aroused your 
critical sense ; and I admit that there is much to 
criticise. 

Then there is another writer, lately dead, alas, 
whose books I used to read with absorbing in- 
terest, George Gissing. They had, when he 
treated of his own peculiar stratum, the same 
quality of hard reality which I value most of all 
in a work of fiction. The actors were not so 
much vulgar as underbred ; their ambitions and 
tastes were often deplorable. But one felt that 
they were real people. The wall of the suburban 
villa was gently removed, and the life was before 
your eyes. The moment he strayed from that 
milieu^ the books became fantastic and unreal. 
But in the last two books, By the Ionian Sea and 
the Papers of Henry Ry croft, Gissing stepped into 
a new province, and produced exquisitely beauti- 
ful and poetical idealistic literature. 



2IO The Upton Letters 

Thomas Hardy is a poetical writer. But his 
rustic hfe, dreatay, melancholy, and beautiful as 
it is, with the wind blowing fragrant out of the 
heart of the wood, or the rain falling on the down, 
seems to me to be no more real than the scenes in 
As You Like It or The Tempest. The figures are 
actors playing a part. And then there is through 
his books so strong a note of sex, and people 
under the influence of passion seem to me to be- 
have in so incomprehensible a way, in a manner so 
foreign to my own experience, that though I 
would not deny the truth of the picture, I would 
say that it is untrue for me, and therefore un- 
meaning. 

I have never fallen under the sway of Rudyard 
Kipling. Whenever I read his stories, I feel my- 
self for the time in the grip of a strong mind, and 
it becomes a species of intoxication. But I am 
naturally sober by inclination, and though I can 
unreservedly admire the strength, the vigour, the 
splendid imaginativeness of his conceptions, yet 
the whole note of character is distasteful to me. 
I don't like his male men ; I should dislike them 
and be ill at ease with them in real life, and I am 
ill at ease with them in his books. This is purely 
a matter of taste ; and as to the animal stories, 



The Upton Letters 211 

terrifically clever as they are, they appear to me 
to be no more true to life than lyandseer's pictures 
of dogs holding a coroner's inquest or smoking 
pipes. The only book of his that I re-read is The 
Light that Failed, for its abundant vitality and 
tragicalness ; but the same temperamental repug- 
nance overcomes me even there. 

For pure imagination, I should alwa3^s fly to a 
book by H. G. Wells. He has that extraordinary 
power of imagining the impossible, and working 
it out in a hard literal way which is absolutely 
convincing. But he is a teller of tales and not a 
dramatist. 

Well, you will be tired of all these fussy ap- 
preciations. But what one seems to miss nowa- 
days is the presence of a writer of superlative 
lucidity and humanity, for whose books one waits 
with avidity, and orders them beforehand, as soon 
as they are announced. For one thing, most peo- 
ple seem to me to write too much. The moment 
a real success is scored, the temptation, no doubt 
adroitl}^ whispered by publishers, to produce a 
similar book on similar lines, becomes very strong. 
Few living writers are above the need for earning 
money ; but even that would not spoil a genius if 
we had him. 



2 12 The Upton Letters 

These writers whom I have mentioned seem to 
me all like little bubbling rivulets, each with a 
motion, a grace, a character of its own. But what 
one craves for is a river deep and wide, for some 
one, with a great flood of humanity like Scott, or 
with a leaping cataract of irrepressible humour 
like Dickens, or with a core of white-hot passion 
like Charlotte Bronte, or a store of brave and 
wholesome gaiety and zest, such as Stevenson 
showed. 

Well, we must wait and hope. Meanwhile, I 
will write to my great book-taster; one of the few 
men alive with great literary vitality, who has 
never indulged the temptation to write, and has 
never written a line. I will show him the manner 
of man you are, and a box of bright volumes 
shall be packed for you. The one condition is 
that you shall write me in return a sheet of similar 
appreciations. The only thing is to know what 
one likes, and strike out a line for oneself; the 
rest is mere sheep-like grazing — forty feeding like 
one. — Ever yours, T. B. 

ASHFiKivD, SKTTI.B, September 4, 1904. 
Dear Herbert, — I have been reading Fitz- 
Gerald's pretty essay Euphranor. It is Platonic 



The Upton Letters 213 

both in form and treatment, but I never feel that 
it is wholly successful. Most of the people who 
express admiration for it know nothing of the 
essa}^ except a delicious passage at the end, like a 
drauglit of fragrant wine, about the gowned fig- 
ures evaporating into the twilight, and the night- 
ingale heard among the flowering chestnuts of 
Jesus College. But the talk itself is discursive and 
somewhat pompous. However, it is not of that 
that I wish to speak, it is rather of the passage 
from Digby's Godefridus which is read aloud by 
the narrator, which sets out to analyse the joyful 
and generous temperament of Youth. ' ' They [the 
young] are easily put to Shame [so runs the 
script] for they have no resources to set aside 
the precepts which they have learned; and they 
have lofty souls, for they have never been dis- 
graced or brought low, and they are unacquainted 
with Necessity; they prefer Honour to Advantage, 
Virtue to Expediency ; for they live by Affection 
rather than by Reason, and Reason is concerned 
with Expediency, but Affection with Honour." 

All very beautiful and noble, no doubt ; but is 
it real ? was I, were you, creatures of this make ? 
Could these fine things have been truthfully said 
of us? Perhaps you may think it of yourself, 



214 The Upton Letters 

but I can only regretfully say that I do not 
recognise it. 

My boyhood and youth were, it seems to me, 
very faulty things. My age is faulty still, more 's 
the pity. But without any vain conceit, and with 
all the humility which is given by a knowledge 
of weakness, I can honestly say that in particular 
points I have improved a little. I am not gen- 
erous or noble-hearted now ; but I have not lost 
these qualities, for I never had them. As a boy 
and a young man I distinctly preferred Advantage 
to Honour ; I was the pre}^ of Expediency, and 
seldom gave Virtue a thought. But since I have 
known more of men, I have come to know that 
these fine powers, Honour and Virtue, do bloom 
in some men's souls, and in the hearts of many 
women. I have perceived their fragrance ; I have 
seen Honour raise its glowing face like a rose, 
and Virtue droop its head like a pure snowdrop ; 
and I hope that some day, as in an early day of 
spring, I may find some such tender green thing 
budding in the ugly soil of my own poor spirit. 

Life would be a feeble business if it were other- 
wise ; but the one ray of hope is not that one 
steadily declines in brightness from those early 
days, but that one may learn by admiration the 



The Upton Letters 215 

beauty of the great qualities one never had by 
instinct. 

I see myself as a boy, greedy, mean-spirited, 
selfish, dull. I see myself as a young man, vain, 
irritable, self-absorbed, unbalanced. I have not 
eradicated these weeds ; but I have learned to be- 
lieve in beauty and honour, even in Truth. . . . 

— Ever yours, 

T. B. 

MoNK*s Orchard, Upton, 

September 13, 1904. 

Dbar Herbert, — I have just come back after 
a long, vague holiday, feeling well and keen about 
my work. The boys are not back yet, and I have 
returned to put things ready for next half. But 
my serene mood has received a shock this 
morning. 

I wonder if you ever get disagreeable letters? 
I suppose that a schoolmaster is peculiarly liable 
to receive them. The sort of letter I mean is 
this. I come down to breakfast in good spirits ; 
I pick up a letter and open it, and, all of a sud- 
den, it is as if a snake slipped out and bit me. I 
close it and put it away, thinking I will read it 
later ; there it lies close by my plate, and takes 
away the taste of food, and blots the sunshine. I 



2i6 The Upton Letters 

take it upstairs, saying that it will want consid- 
eration. I finish my other letters, and then I 
take it out again. Out comes the snake again 
with a warning hiss ; but I resist temptation this 
time, read it through, and sit staring out of the 
window. A disagreeable letter from a disagree- 
able man, containing anxious information, of a 
kind that I cannot really test. What is the best 
way to deal with it ? I know by experience ; an- 
swer it at once, as dispassionately as one can ; 
extract from it the few grains of probable truth 
it holds, and keep them in mind for possible 
future use ; then deliberately try and forget all 
about it. I know now by experience that the 
painful impression will gradually fade, and, mean- 
while, one must try to interpret the whole matter 
rightly. What is there in one's conduct which 
needs the check ? Is it that one grows confident 
and careless? Probably ! But the wholesome 
thing to do is to deal with it at once; otherwise it 
means anxious and feverish hours, when one 
composes a long and epigrammatic answer, point 
by point. The letter is over-stated, gossipy, ma- 
licious ; if one lets it soak into the mind, it makes 
one suspicious of every one, miserable, cowardly. 
It is useless in the first hours, when the sting is 



The Upton Letters 217 

yet tingling, to remind oneself philosophically 
that the suggestion is exaggerated and malignant; 
one does not get any comfort that way. No, the 
only thing is to plunge into detail, to work, to 
read — anything to recover the tone of the mind. 

It is a comfort to write to you about it, for to- 
day I am in the sore and disquieted condition 
which is j ust as unreal and useless as though I 
were treating the matter with indifference. In- 
difference indeed would be criminal, but morbidity 
is nearly as bad. 

I once saw a very dramatic thing take place in 
church. It was in a town parish near my old 
home. The clergyman was a friend of mine, a 
wonderfully calm and tranquil person. He went 
up to the pulpit while a hymn was being sung. 
When the hymn concluded, he did not give out 
his text, but remained for a long time silent, 
so long that I thought he was feeling ill ; the 
silence became breathless, and the attention of 
every one in the church became riveted on the 
pulpit. Then he slowly took up a letter from the 
cushion, and said in a low, clear voice: " A fort- 
night ago I found, on entering the pulpit, a letter 
addressed to me in an unknown hand ; I took it 
out and read it afterwards ; it was anonymous, 



2i8 The Upton Letters 

and its contents were scandalous. Last Sunday 
I found another, which I burned unread. To-day 
there is another, which I do not intend to read " 
— he tore the letter across as he said the words, in 
the sight of the congregation — '* and I give notice 
that, if any further communications of the kind 
reach me, I shall put the matter into the hands of 
the police. I am willing to receive, if necessary, 
verbal communications on such subjects, though 
I do not think that any good purpose can be 
served by them. But to make vague and libellous 
accusations against members of the congregation 
in this way is cowardly, dishonourable, and un- 
christian. I have a strong suspicion" — he 
looked steadily down the church—" of the quarter 
from which these letters emanate ; and I solemnly 
warn the writer that, if I have to take action in 
the matter, I shall take measures to make that 
action effective." 

I never saw a thing better done ; it was said 
without apparent excitement or agitation ; he 
presently gave out his text and preached as usual. 
It seemed to me a supremely admirable way of 
dealing with the situation. Need I add that he 
was practical enough to take the pieces of the 
letter away with him ? 



The Upton Letters 219 

I once received an anonymous letter, not about 
myself, but about a friend. I took it to a cele- 
brated lawyer, and we discovered the right way 
to deal wnth it. I remember that, when we had 
finished, he took up the letter— a really vile docu^ 
uient— and said musingly : " I have often won> 
dered what the pleasure of sending such things 
consists in ! I always fancy the sender taking out 
his watch, and saying, with malicious glee, ' I 
suppose so-and-so will be receiving my letter 
about now ! ' It must be a perverted sense of 
power, I think." 

I said, ** Yes, and don't you think that there is 
also something of the pleasure of saying ' Bo ' to 
a goose?" The great man smiled, and said, 
'' Perhaps." 

Well, I must try to forget, but I don't know 
anything that so takes the courage and the cheer- 
fulness out of one's mind as one of these secret, 
dastardly things. My letter this morning was 
not anonymous ; but it was nearly as bad, because 
it was impossible to use or to rely upon the in- 
formation ; and it was, moreover, profoundly 
disquieting. 

Tell me what you think ! I suppose it is 
good for one to know how weak one's armour 



220 The Upton Letters 

is and how vulnerable is one's feeble self. — Ever 
yours, ^ ^ 

Upton, September 20, 1904. 
Dear Herbert, — I have been reading lately, 
not for the first time, but with increased interest, 
the Memoir of Mark Pattison. It was, you will 
remember, dictated by himself towards the end of 
his life, and published after his death with a few 
omissions. It was not favourably received, and 
was called cowardly, cynical, bitter, a '* cry in the 
dark," treacherous, and so forth. It is very diffi- 
cult not to be influenced b}^ current opinion in 
one's view of a book ; one comes to it prepared to 
find certain characteristics, and it is difficult to de- 
tach one's mind suflficiently to approach a much- 
reviewed volume with perfect frankness. But I 
have read the book several times, and my admira- 
tion for it increases. It does not reveal a generous 
or particularly attractive character, and there are 
certain episodes in it which are undoubtedly 
painful. But it is essentially a just, courageous, 
and candid book. He is very hard on other peo- 
ple, and deals hard knocks. He shows very 
clearly that he was deficient in tolerance and 
sympathy, but he is quite as severe on himself. 



The Upton Letters 221 

What I value in the book is its absolute sincerity. 
He does not attempt to draw an ideal picture of 
his own life and character at the expense of other 
people. One sees him develop from the shy, 
gauche, immature boy into the mature, secluded, 
crabbed, ungracious student. If he had adopted 
a pose, he might have sketched his own life in 
beautiful subdued colours ; he might have made 
himself out as misrepresented and misunderstood. 
He does none of these things. He shows clearly 
that the disasters of his life were quite as much 
due to his own temperamental mistakes as to the 
machinations of others. He has no illusions 
about himself, and he does not desire that his 
readers should have any. The sadness of the 
book comes from his failure, or rather his consti- 
tutional inability, to see other people whole. 
After all, our appreciations for other people are of 
the nature of a sum. There is ^ certain amount 
of addition and subtraction to be done ; the point 
is whether the sum total is to the credit of the 
person concerned. But with Mark Pattison the 
process of subtraction was more congenial than 
the |)rocess of addition. He saw and felt the 
weakness of those who surrounded him so keenly 
that he did not do justice to their good qualities. 



22 2 The Upton Letters 

This comes out very clearly when he deals with 
Newman and Pusey. Pattison was a member for 
a time of the Tractarian set, but he must have 
been always at heart a Liberal and a Rationalist, 
and the spell which Newman temporarily cast 
over him appeared to him in after life to have 
been a kind of ugly hypnotism, to which he had 
limply submitted. Certainly the diary which he 
quotes concerning his own part in the Tractarian 
movement, the conversations to which he listened, 
the morbid frame of mind to which he succumbed 
are deplorable reading. Indeed the reminiscences 
of Newman's conversation in particular, the pe- 
dantry, the hankering after miracles, the narrow- 
ness of view, are an extraordinary testimony to 
the charm with which Newman must have in- 
vested all he did or said. Pattison is even more 
severe on Pusey, and charges him with having 
betrayed a secret which he had confided to him 
in confession. It does not seem to occur to Patti- 
son to consider whether he did not himself men- 
tion the fact, whatever it was, to some other 
friend. 

On the other hand, the book reveals an ex- 
traordinary intellectual ideal. It holds up a 
standard for the student which is profoundly im- 



The Upton Letters 223 

pressive ; and I know no other book which dis- 
plays in a more single-minded and sincere way 
the passionate desire of the savant for wide, deep, 
and perfect knowledge, which is to be untainted 
by any admixture of personal ambition. Indeed, 
Pattison speaks of literary ambition as being for 
the student not an amiable weakness, but a 
defiling and polluting sin. 

Of course, it is natural to feel that there is a cer- 
tain selfish aridity about such a point of view. 
The results of Mark Pattison' s devotion are 
hardly commensurate with his earnestness. He 
worked on a system which hardly permitted him 
to put the results at the disposal of others ; but 
there is at the same time something which is both 
dignified and stately in the idea of the lonely, la- 
borious life, without hope and without reward, 
sustained only by the pursuit of an impossible 
perfection. 

It is not, however, as if this was all that Mark 
Pattison did. He was a great intellectual factor 
at Oxford, especially in early days ; in later days, 
he was a venerable and splendid monument. But 
as tutor of his college, before his great disap- 
pointment — his failure to be elected to the Rector- 
ship — he evidently lived a highly practical and 



224 The Upton Letters 

useful life. There is something disarming about 
the naive way in which he records that he became 
aware that he was the possessor of a certain mag- 
netic influence to which gradually every one in 
the place, including the old Rector himself, 
submitted. 

The story of his failure to be elected Rector is 
deeply pathetic. Pattison reveals with terrible 
realism the dingy and sordid intrigues which put 
an unworthy man in the place which he himself 
had earned. But it may be doubted whether 
there was so much malignity about the whole 
matter as he thought ; and, at all events, it may 
be said that men do not commonly make enemies 
without reason. It does not seem to occur to him 
to question whether his own conduct and his own 
remarks may not have led to the unhappy situa- 
tion ; and indeed, if he spoke of his colleagues in 
his lifetime with the same acrimony with which 
his posthumous book speaks of them, the mystery 
is adequately explained. 

His depression and collapse, which he so merci- 
lessly chronicles, after the disaster, do not appear 
to me to be cowardly. He was an over- worked, 
over-strained man, with a strong vein of morbidity 
in his constitution; and to have the great prize of 



The Upton Letters 225 

a headship, which was the goal of his dearest 
hopes, put suddenly and evidently quite unex- 
pectedly in his hands, and then in so unforeseen 
a manner torn away, must have been a terrible 
and unmanning catastrophe. What is ungener- 
ous is that he did not more tenderly realise that 
eventually it all turned out for the best. He re- 
cognises the fact somewhat grudgingly. Yet he 
was disengaged by the shock from professional 
life. He gained bodily strength and vigour by 
the change ; he began his work of research ; and 
then, just at the time when his ideal was consoli- 
dated, the Rectorship came to him — when it 
might have seemed that by his conduct he had 
forfeited all hopes of it. 

In another respect, the book is admirable. Mark 
Pattison attained high and deserved literary dis- 
tinction ; but there is no hint of complacency on 
this subject, rather, indeed, the reverse ; for he 
confesses that success had upon him no effect but 
to humiliate him by the consideration that the 
completed work might have been so much better 
both by conception and execution than it actually 
was. 

I feel, on closing the book, a great admiration 

for the man, mingled with infinite pity for the 
15 



226 The Upton Letters 

miseries which his own temperament inflicted on 
him ; it gives me, too, a high intellectual stimu- 
lus ; it makes me realise the nobility and the 
beauty of knowledge, the greatness of the intel- 
lectual life. One may regret that in Pattison's 
case this was not mingled with more practical 
power, more sympathy, more desire to help rather 
than to pursue. But here, again, one cannot 
have everything, and the life presents a fine pro- 
test against materialism, against the desire of 
recognition, against illiberal and retrograde views 
of thought. Here was a great and lonely figure 
haunted by a dream which few of those about him 
could understand, and with which hardly any 
could sympathise. He writes pathetically : " I 
am fairly entitled to say that, since the year 1851, 
1 have lived wholly for study. There can be no 
vanity in making this confession, for, strange to 
say, in a university ostensibly endowed for the 
cultivation of science and letters, such a life is 
hardly regarded as a creditable one." 

The practical effect of such a book on me is to 
make me realise the high virtue of thoroughness. 
It is not wholly encouraging, because at a place 
like this one must do a good deal of one's work 
slopypily and sketchily ; but it makes me ashamed 



The Upton Letters 227 

of my sketchiness ; I make good resolutions to get 
up my subjects better, and, even if I know that I 
shall relapse, something will have been gained. 
But that is a side-issue. The true gain is to have 
been confronted with a real man, to have looked 
into the depth of his spirit, to realise differences 
of temperament, to be initiated into a high and 
noble ambition. And at the same time, alas ! to 
learn by his failures to value tact and sympathy 
and generosity still more ; and to learn that noble 
purpose is ineffective if it is secluded ; to trj^ reso- 
lutely to see the strong points of other workers, 
rather than their feeblenesses ; and to end by feel- 
ing that we have all of us abundant need to for- 
give and to be forgiven. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, September 26, 1904. 
Dkar Hkrbkrt, — I am much exercised in my 
mind about school sermons. It seems to me 
that w^e ought to make more of them than we do. 
We have our sermons here, very wisel}^ I think, 
at the evening service. The boys are more alert, 
the preacher is presumably in a more genial mood, 
the chapel is warm and brightly lighted, the 
music has had a comforting and stimulating effect 



228 The Upton Letters 

upon the mind ; it is exactly the time when the 
boys are ready and disposed to be interested in 
themselves, their lives and characters ; they are 
hopeful, serious, ardent. The iron is hot, and it 
is just the moment to strike. 

Well, it seems to me that the opportunity is 
often missed. In the first place, all the clerical 
members of the staff are asked to preach in turn 
— '* given a mount," as the boys say. The head- 
master preaches once a month, and a certain num- 
ber of outside preachers, old Uptonians, local 
clergy, and others are imported. 

Now the first point that strikes me is that to 
suppose that every clergyman is ipso facto capable 
of preaching at all is a great mistake. I suppose 
that every thoughtful Christian must have enough 
materials for a few sermons ; there must be some 
aspects of truth that come home to every indi- 
vidual in a striking manner, some lessons of char- 
acter which he has learned. But he need not 
necessarily have the art of expressing himself in 
a penetrating and incisive way. It seems to me 
a mistaken sort of conscientiousness which makes 
it necessary for every preacher to compose his own 
sermons. I do not see why the sermons of great 
preachers should not frankly be read ; one hears a 



The Upton Letters 229 

dull sermon by a tired man on a subject which 
Newman has treated with exquisite lucidity and 
feeling in one of his parochial sermons. Why is 
it better to hear tedious considerations on the same 
point expressed in a commonplace way than to 
listen to the words of a master of the art, and one 
too who saw, like Newman, very deep into the 
human heart ? I would have a man frankly vSay 
at the beginning of his sermon that he had been 
thinking about a particular point, and that he 
was going to read one of Newman's sermons on 
the subject. Then, if any passage was obscure 
or compressed, he might explain it a little. 

Again, I want more homeliness, more sim- 
plicity, more directness in sermons ; and so few 
people seem to be aware that these qualities of 
expression are not only the result of being a 
homely, simple, and direct character, but are a 
matter of long practice and careful art. 

Then, again, I want sermons to be more shrewd 
and incisive. Holiness, saintliness, and piety are 
virtues which are foreign to the character of boys. 
If any proof of it is needed, it is only too true that 
if a boy applies any of the three adjectives holy, 
saintly, or pious to a person, it is not intended to 
be a compliment. The words in their mouths 



230 The Upton Letters 

imply sanctimonious pretension, and a certain 
Pharisaical and even li3'pocritical scrupulousness. 
It is a great mistake to overlook this fact ; I do 
not mean that a preacher should not attempt to 
praise these virtues, but if he does, he ought to 
be able to translate his thoughts into language 
which will approve itself to boys ; he ought to be 
able to make it clear that such qualities are not 
inconsistent with manliness, humour, and kindli- 
ness. A school preacher ought to be able to in- 
dulge a vein of gentle satire ; he ought to be able 
to make boys ashamed of their absurd conven- 
tionalism ; he ought to give the impression that 
because he is a Christian he is none the less a 
man of the world in the right sense. He ought 
not to uphold what, for want of a better word, I 
will call a feminine religion, a religion of sainted 
choir-boys and exemplary death-beds. A. boy 
does not want to be gentle, meek, and mild, and 
I fear I cannot say that it is to be desired that he 
should. But if a man is shrewd and even hu- 
morous first, he can lift his audience into purer 
and higher regions afterwards ; and he will then 
be listened to, because his hearers will feel that 
the qualities they most admire — strength, keen- 
ness, good humour — need not be left behind at 



The Upton Letters 231 

the threshold of the Christian life, but may be 
used and practised in the higher regions. 

Then, too, I think that there is a sad want of 
variety. How rarely does one hear a biographical 
sermon ; and yet biography is one of the things 
to which almost all boys will listen spellbound. 
I wish that a preacher would sometimes just tell 
the story of some gallant Christian life, showing 
the boys that the}^ too may live such lives if they 
have the will. Preachers dwell far too much on 
the side of self-sacrifice and self-abnegation. 
Those, it seems to me, are much more mature 
ideals. I wish that they would dwell more upon 
the enjoyment, the interest, the amusement of be- 
ing good in a vigorous way. 

What has roused these thoughts in me are two 
sermons I have lately heard here. On Sunday 
week, a great preacher came here, and spoke with 
extraordinar}^ force and sense upon the benefits 
to be derived from making the most of chapel 
services. I never heard the thing better done. 
He gave the simplest motives for doing it. He 
said that we all believed in goodness in our hearts, 
and that a service, if we came to it in the right 
way, was a means of hammering goodness in. 
That it was a good thing that chapel services 



232 The Upton Letters 

were compulsory, because if they were optional, 
a great many boys would stay away out of pure 
laziness, and lose much good thereby. And as 
they were compulsory, we had better make the 
most we could of them. He went on to speak of 
attention, of posture, and so forth. There are a 
certain number of big boys here, who have an 
offensive habit of putting their heads down upon 
their arms on the book-board during a sermon, 
and courting sleep. The preacher made a pause 
at this point, and said that it was, of course, true 
that an attitude of extreme devotion did not 
always mean a corresponding seriousness of mind. 
There was a faint ripple of mirth at this, and 
then, one by one, the boys who were engaged in 
attempting to sleep raised themselves slowly up 
in a sheepish manner, trying to look as if they 
were only altering their position naturally. It 
was intensely ludicrous ; but so good for the 
offenders ! And then the preacher rose into a 
higher vein, and said how the thought of the 
school chapel would come back to the boys in 
distant days ; that the careless would wish in vain 
that they had found the peace of Christ there, and 
that those who had worshipped in spirit and truth 
would be thankful that it had been so. And 



The Upton Letters 233 

then he drew a httle picture of a manly, pure, and 
kind ideal of a boy's life in words that made all 
hearts go out to him. Bo3^s are heedless creatures; 
but I am sure that many of them, for a day or two 
at all events, tried to live a better life in the spirit 
of that strong and simple message. 

Well, yesterday we had a man of a very differ- 
ent sort ; earnest enough and high-minded, I am 
sure, but he seemed to have forgotten, if he had 
ever known, what a boy's heart and mind were 
like. The sermon was devoted to imploring boys 
to take Orders, and he drew a dismal picture of 
the sacrifices the step entailed, and depicted, in a 
singularly unattractive vein, the life of a city 
curate. Now the only way to make the thought 
of such a life appeal to boys is to indicate the 
bravery, the interest of it all, the certainty that 
you are helping human beings, the enjoyment 
which always attaches to human relationship. 

The result was, I confess, extremely depressing. 
He made a fervent appeal at the end; " The call," 
he said, " comes to 3'OU now and to-day." I 
watched from my stall with, I am sorry to say, 
immense amusement, the proceedings of a great, 
burly, red-faced boy, a prominent football player, 
and a very decent sort of fellow. He had fallen 



234 The Upton Letters 

asleep early in the discourse ; and at this urgent 
invitation, he opened one eye and cast it upon the 
preacher with a serene and contented air. Find- 
ing that the call did not appear to him to be par- 
ticularly imperative, he slowly closed it again, 
and, with a good-tempered sigh, addressed him- 
self once more to repose. I laughed secretly, 
hoping the preacher did not observe his hearer. 

But, seriously, it seemed to me a lamentable 
waste of opportunities. The Sunday evening 
service is the one time in the week when there is 
a chance of putting religion before the boys in a 
beautiful light. Most of them desire to be good, 
I think ; their half-formed wishes, their faltering 
hopes, their feeble desires, ought to be tenderly 
met, and lifted, and encouraged. At times, too, 
a stern morality ought to be preached and en- 
forced ; wilful transgression ought to be held up 
in a terrible light. I do not really mind how it 
is done, but the heart ought somehow to be 
stirred and awakened. There is room for de- 
nunciation and there is room for encouragement. 
Best of all is a due admixture of both ; if sin can 
be shown in its true colours, if the darkness, 
the horror, the misery of the vicious life can 
be displayed, and the spirit then pointed to the 



The Upton Letters 235 

true and right path, the most is done that can be 
done. 

But we grow so miserably stereotyped and 
mannerised. My cautious colleagues are dread- 
fully afraid of anything which they call re- 
vivalistic, and, indeed, of anything which is 
unconventional. I should like to see the Sunday 
sermon made one of the most stirring events of 
the week, as Arnold made it at Rugby. I should 
like preachers to be selected with the utmost care, 
and told beforehand what they were to preach 
about. No instruction is wanted in a school 
chapel — the boys get plenty of that in their Di- 
vinity lessons. What is wanted is that the heart 
should be touched, and that faint strivings after 
purity and goodness should be enforced and 
helped. To give the spirit wings, that ought to 
be the object. But so often we have to listen to 
a conscientious discourse, in which the preacher, 
after saying that the scene in which the narrative 
is laid is too well known to need description, pro- 
ceeds to paint an ugly picture out of The Land 
and the Book or Farrar's Life of Christ, The 
story is then tediously related, and we end by 
a few ethical considerations, taken out of the 
footnotes of the Cambridge Bible for Schools or 



236 The Upton Letters 

Homiletical Hmts, which make even the most 
ardent Christian feel that after all the pursuit of 
perfection is a very dreary business. 

But a brave, wise-hearted, and simple man, 
speaking from the heart to the heart, not as one 
who has attained to a standard of impossible per- 
fection, but as an elder pilgrim, a little older, a 
little stronger, a little farther on the way — what 
cannot such an one do to set feeble feet on the 
path, and turn souls to the light ? Boys are often 
pathetically anxious to be good ; but they are 
creatures of impulse, and what they need is to feel 
that goodness is interesting, beautiful, and desir- 
able. . . . — Ever yours, ^ _, 

i . ±>. 

Upton, October 5, 1904. 
Dear Herbert, — It is autumn now with us, 
the sweetest season of the year to a polar bear like 
myself. Of course, spring is ravishingly, en- 
chantingly beautiful, but she brings a languor 
with her, and there are the hot months to be lived 
through, treading close on her heels. But now 
the summer is over and done ; the long firelit 
evenings are coming, and, as if to console one for 
the loss of summer beauty, the whole world blazes 
out into a rich funereal pomp. I walked to-day 



The Upton Letters 237 

with a friend to a place not far away, a great, 
moated house in a big, ancient park. We left 
the town, held on through the wretched grada- 
tions of suburbanity, and then, a few hundred 
yards from the business-like, treeless high-road, 
the coverts came in sight. There is always a dim 
mystery about a close-set wood showing its front 
across the fields. It always seems to me like a 
silent battalion guarding some secret thing. We 
left the high-road and soon were in the wood — the 
dripping woodways, all strewn with ruinous gold, 
opening to right and left ; and soon the roofs and 
towers of the big house — Puginesque Gothic, I 
must tell you — came in sight. But those early 
builders of the romantic revival, though they 
loved stucco and shallow niches, had somehow a 
sense of mass. It pleases me to know that the 
great Sir Walter himself had a hand in the build- 
ing of this very house, planned the barbican and 
the water-gate. All round the house lies a broad 
moat of black water, full of innumerable carp. 
The place was breathlessly still ; only the sharp 
melancholy cries of water-birds and the distant 
booming of guns broke the silence. The water 
was all sprinkled with golden leaves, that made a 
close carpet round the sluices : the high elms 



238 The Upton Letters 

were powdered with gold ; the chestnuts showed 
a rustier red. A silent gardener, raking leaves 
with ancient leisureliness, was the only sign of 
life — he might have been a spirit for all the sound 
he made ; while the big house blinked across the 
rich clumps of Michaelmas daisies, and the dark 
windows showed a flicker of fire darting upon the 
walls. Everything seemed mournful, yet con- 
tented, dying serenely and tranquilly, with a great 
and noble dignity. I wish I could put into words 
the sweet solemnity, the satisfying gravity of the 
scene ; it was like the sight of a beautiful aged 
face that testifies to an inner spirit which has 
learned patience, tenderness, and trustfulness from 
experience, and is making ready, without fear 
or anxiety, for the last voyage. 

I say gratefully that this is one of the benefits 
of growing older, that these beautiful things seem 
to speak more and more instantly to the mind. 
Perhaps the faculty of eager enjoyment is some- 
what blunted ; but the appeal, the sweetness, the 
pathos, the mystery of the world, as life goes on, 
fall far oftener and with far more of a magical 
spell upon the heart. 

We walked for a while by a bridge, where the 
stream out of the moat ran hoarsely, choked with 



The Upton Letters 239 

drift, in its narrow walls. That melancholy and 
sobbing sound seemed only to bring out more 
forcibly the utter silence of the tall trees and the 
sky above them ; light wreaths of mist lay over 
the moat, and we could see far across the rough 
pasture, with a few scattered oaks of immemorial 
age standing bluff and gnarled among the grass. 
The time of fresh spring showers, of sailing 
clouds, of basking summer heat, was over — so 
said the grey, gentle sky — what was left but to 
let the sap run backward to its secret home, to 
rest, to die? With such sober and stately ac- 
quiescence would I await the end, not grudgingly, 
not impatiently, but in a kind of solemn glory, 
with gratitude and love and trust. 

My companion of that day was Vane, one of my 
colleagues, and we had discussed a dozen of the 
small interests and problems that make up our 
busy life at this restless place ; but a silence fell 
upon us now. The curtain of life was for a mo- 
ment drawn aside, the hangings that wrap us 
round, and we looked for an instant into the vast 
and starHt silences, the formless, ancient dark, 
where a thousand years are but as yesterday, and 
into which the countless generations of men have 
marched, one after another. That is a solemn. 



240 The Upton Letters 

but hardly a despairing thought ; for something 
is being wrought out in the silence, something of 
which we may not be conscious, but which is 
surely there. Could we but lay that cool and 
mighty thought closer to our spirits ! That im- 
penetrable mystery ought to give us courage, to 
let us rest, as it were, within a mighty arm. Be- 
hind and beyond the precisest creed that great 
mystery lies ; the bewildering question as to how 
it is possible for our own atomic life to be so 
sharply defined and bounded from the life of the 
world — why the frail tabernacle in which we 
move should be thus intensely our own, and all 
outside it apart from us. 

Yet in days like this calm autumn day, one 
seems to draw a little closer to the mystery, to 
take a nearer share in the great and wide inheri- 
tance, to be less of ourselves and more of God. — 

Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Monk's Orchard, Upton, 

October 12, 1904. 

Dkar Herbert,— I have nothing but local 
gossip to tell you. We have been having a series 
of Committee meetings lately about our chapel 
services ; I am a member of the Committee, and 



The Upton Letters 241 

as so often happens, when one is brought into 
close contact with one's colleagues upon a definite 
question, I find myself lost in bewilderment at the 
views which are held and advanced by sensible 
and virtuous men. I don't say that I am neces- 
sarily right, and that those who disagree with me 
are wrong ; I dare say that some of my fellow- 
members think me a tiresome and wrong-headed 
man. But in one point I believe I am right ; in 
things of this kind, the only policy seems to me 
to try to arrive at some broad principle, to know 
what you are driving at ; and then, having arrived 
at it, to try and work it out in detail. Now two 
or three of my friends seem to me to begin at the 
wrong end ; to have got firmly into their heads 
certain details, and to fight with all their power 
to get these details accepted, without attempting 
to try and develop a principle at all. For in- 
stance, Roberts, one of the members of the Com- 
mittee, is only anxious for what he calls the 
maintenance of liturgical tradition ; he says that 
there is a science of liturgy, and that it is of the 
utmost importance to keep in touch with it. The 
sort of detail that he presses is that at certain 
seasons the same hymn ought to be sung on Sun- 
day morning and every morning throughout the 
16 



242 The Upton Letters 

week, because of the mediaeval system of octaves. 
He calls this knocking the same nail on the head, 
and, as is common enough, he is led to confuse a 
metaphor with an argument. Again, he is very 
anxious to have the Litany twice a week, that 
the boys may be trained, as he calls it, in the 
habit of continuous prayerful attention. Another 
member, Randall, is very anxious that the .serv- 
ices should be what he calls instructive ; that 
courses, for instance, of sermons should be 
preached on certain books of the Old Testament, 
on the Pauline Epistles, and so forth. He is also 
very much set on having dogmatic and doctrinal 
sermons, because dogma and doctrine are the 
bone and sinew of religion. Another man, old 
Pigott, says that the whole theory of worship is 
praise, and he is very anxious to avoid all sub- 
jective and individual rehgion. 

I find myself in hopeless disagreement with 
these three worthy men ; my own theory of school 
services is, to put it shortly, that they should /^^^ 
the soul, and draw it gently to the mysteries of 
lyove and Faith. The whole point is, I believe, 
to rouse and sustain a pure and generous emo- 
tion. Most boys have in various degrees a re- 
ligious sense. That is to say, that they have 



The Upton Letters 243 

moments when they are conscious of the Father- 
hood of God, of redemption from sin, of the in- 
dwelling of a Holy Spirit. They have moments 
when they see all that they might be and are not 
— moments when they would rather be pure than 
impure, unselfish rather than self-absorbed, kind 
rather than unkind, brave rather than cowardly ; 
moments when they perceive, however dimly, 
that happiness lies in activity and kindliness, and 
when they would give much never to have stained 
their conscience with evil. It seems to me that 
school services ought to aim at developing these 
faint and faltering dreams, at increasing the sense 
of the beauty and peace of holiness, at giving 
them some strong and joyful thought that will 
send them back to the world of life resolved to 
try again, to be better and worthier. 

I am afraid that I do not value the science of 
liturgical tradition very much. The essence of 
all science is that it should be progressive ; our 
problems and needs are not the same as mediaeval 
problems and needs. The whole conception of 
God and man has broadened and deepened. Sci- 
ence has taught us that nature is a part of the 
mind of God, not something to be merely con- 
tended against ; again, it has taught us that man 



244 The Upton Letters 

has probably not fallen from grace into corruption, 
but is slowly struggling upwards out of darkness 
into light. Again, we no longer think that every- 
thing was created for the use and enjoyment of 
man ; we know now of huge tracts of the earth 
where for thousands of years a vast pageant of 
life has been displaying itself without any refer- 
ence to humanity at all. Then, too, as a great 
scientist has lately pointed out, the dark and 
haunting sense of sin, that drove devotees to the 
desert and to lives of the grimmest asceticism, has 
given place to a nobler conception of civic virtue, 
has turned men's hearts rather to amendment 
than to repentance ; well, that, in the face of all 
this, we should be limited to the precise kind of 
devotions that approved themselves to mediaeval 
minds seems to me to be a purely retrograde 
position. 

Then as to arranging services in order to culti- 
vate the power of continuous prayer among boys, 
I think it a thoroughly unpractical theory. In 
the first place, for one boy so trained, you blunt 
the religious susceptibilities of ninety-nine others. 
Boys are quick, lively, and bird-like creatures, 
intolerant above all things of tedium and strain ; 
and I believe that in order to cultivate the re- 



The Upton Letters 245 

ligious sense in them, the first duty of all is to 
make religion attractive, and resolutely to put 
aside all that tends to make it a weariness. 

As to doctrinal and dogmatic instruction, I can- 
not feel that, at a school, the chapel is the place 
for that ; the boys here get a good deal of re- 
ligious instruction, and Sunday is already too full, 
if anything, of it. I believe that the chapel is the 
place to make them, if possible, love their faith 
and find it beautiful; and if you can secure that, 
the dogma will look after itself. The point is, 
for instance, that a boy should be aware of his 
redemption, not that he should know the meta- 
physical method in which it was effected. There 
is very little dogmatic instruction in the Gospels, 
and what there is seems to have been delivered to 
the few and not to the many, to the shepherds 
rather than to the flocks ; it is vital religion and 
not technical that the chapel should be concerned 
with. 

As to the theory of praise, I cannot help feel- 
ing that the old idea that God demanded, so to 
speak, a certain amount of public recognition of 
His goodness and greatness is a purely savage 
and uncivilised form of fetish-worship ; it is the 
same sort of religion that would attach material 



246 The Upton Letters 

prosperity to religious observation; and to belong 
to a time when men believed that, in return for 
a certain number of sacrifices, rain and sun were 
sent to the crops of godly persons, with a nicer re- 
gard to their development than was applied in the 
case of the ungodly. The thought of the Father 
of men feeling a certain satisfaction in their as- 
sembling together to roar out in concert somewhat 
extravagantly phrased ascriptions of honour and 
majesty seems to me purely childish. 

My own belief is that services should in the 
first place be as short as possible; that there 
should be variety and interest, plenty of movement 
and plenty of singing, and that every service 
should be employed to meet and satisfy the rest- 
less minds and bodies of children. But though 
all should be simple, it should not, I think, be of 
a plain and obvious type entirely. There are 
many delicate mysteries, of hope and faith, of 
affliction and regret, of sufiering and sorrow, of 
which many boys are dimly conscious. There 
are many subtle and seemly qualities which lie a 
little apart from the track of manly full-fed game- 
playing boyhood ; and such emotions should be 
cultivated and given voice in our services. To 
arrange the whole of our religion for brisk, 



The Upton Letters 247 

straightforward boys, whose temptations are of 
an obvious type and who have never known sick- 
ness or sorrow, is, I beheve, a radical mistake. 
There is a good deal of secret, tender, delicate 
emotion in the hearts of many boys, which cannot 
be summarily classed and dismissed as subjective. 

Sermons should be brief and ethical, I believe. 
They should aim at waking generous thoughts 
and hopes, pure and gracious ideals. Anything 
of a biographical character appeals strongly to 
boys ; and if one can show that it is not inconsis- 
tent with manliness to have a deep and earnest 
faith, to love truth and purity as well as liberty 
and honour, a gracious seed has been sown. 

Above all, religion should not be treated from 
the purely boyish point of view ; let the boys feel 
that they are strangers, soldiers, and pilgrims, 
let them realise that the world is a difl5cult place, 
but that there is indeed a golden clue that leads 
through the darkness of the labyrinth, if they can 
but set their hand upon it ; let them learn to be 
humble and grateful, not hard and self-sufiQcient. 
And, above all, let them realise that things in 
this world do not come by chance, but that a soul 
is set in a certain place, and that happiness is to 
be found by interpreting the events of life rightly, 



248 The Upton Letters 

by facing sorrows bravely, by showing kindness, 
by thankfully accepting joy and pleasure. 

And lastly, there should come some sense of 
unity, the thought of combination for good, of 
unaffectedness about what we believe to be true 
and pure, of facing the world together and not 
toying with it in isolation. All this should be 
held up to boys. 

Even as it is boys grow to love the school 
chapel, and to think of it in after years as a place 
where gleams of goodness and power visited them. 
It might be even more so than it is ; but it can 
only be so, if we realise the conditions, the ma- 
terial with which we are working. We ought to 
set ourselves to meet and to encourage every 
beautiful aspiration, every holy and humble 
thought; not to begin with some eclectic theory, 
and to try to force boys into the mould. We do 
that in every other department of school life ; but 
I would have the chapel to be a place of liberty, 
where tender spirits may be allowed a glimpse of 
high and holy things which they fitfully desire, 
and which may indeed prove to be a gate of 
heaven. 

Well, for once I have been able to finish a 
letter without a single interruption. If my let- 



The Upton Letters 249 

ters, as a rule, seem very inconsequent, remember 

that they are often written under pressure. But 

I suppose we both envy each other ; you would 

like a little more pressure and I a little less. I 

am glad to hear that all goes well ; thank Nelly 

for her letter. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, October 19, 1904. 

Dear HkrbkrT, — I am at present continuously 
liturgical, owing to my Committee ; but you must 
have the benefit of it. 

I have often wondered which of the compilers 
of the Prayer-book fixed upon the Venite as the 
first Canticle for our Morning Service ; wondered, 
I saj^, in the purposeless way that one does won- 
der, without ever taking the trouble to find out. 
I dare say there are abundant ecclesiological pre- 
cedents for it, if one took the trouble to discover 
them. But the important thing is that it was 
done ; and it is a stroke of genius to have done it. 

(N. B. — I find it is in the Breviary appointed 
for Matins.) 

The thing is so perfect in itself, and in a way 
so unexpected, that I feel in the selection of it the 
work of a deep and poetical heart. Many an in- 
genious ecclesiastical mind would be afraid of 



250 The Upton Letters 

putting a psalm in such a place which changed 
its mood so completely as the Venite does. To 
end with a burst of noble and consuming anger, 
of vehement and merciless indignation — that is 
the magnificent thing. 

Just consider it ; I will write down the verses, 
just for the simple pleasure of shaping the great 
simple phrases: 

** Oh come, let us sing unto the Lord ; let us heartily 
rejoice in the strength of our salvation y 

What a vigorous and enlivening verse, like the 
invitation of old song- writers, *' Begone, dull 
care." For once let us trust ourselves to the full 
tide of exaltation and triumph, to let there be no 
heavy overshadowings of thought. 

'■'■ Letus come before his presence with thanksgiving : 
and show ourselves glad in him, with psalms. 

*^ For the Lord is a great God: and a great King 
above all Gods. 

" Ln his hand are all the corners of the earth ; and the 
strength of the hills is his also. 

" The sea is his and he made it; and his hands pre- 
pared the dry lajid. 

" Oh come, let us worship, and fall down: and kneel 
before the Lord our Maker. 

" For he is the Lord our God ; and we are the people 
of his pasture and the sheep of his hand.'^ 



The Upton Letters 251 

What a splendid burst of joy ; the joy of earth, 
when the sun is bright in a cloudless heaven, and 
the fresh wind blows cheerfully across the plain. 
There is no question of duty here, of a task to be 
performed in heaviness, but a simple tide of joy- 
fulness such as filled the heart of the poet who 

wrote: 

" God 's in His Heaven ; 
All 's right with the world." 

I take it that these verses draw into themselves, 
as the sea draws the streams, all the rivers of joy 
and beauty that flow, whether laden with ships 
out of the heart of great cities, or dropping and 
leaping from high unvisited moorlands. All the 
sweet joys that life holds for us find their calm 
end and haven here ; all the delights of life, of 
action, of tranquil thought, of perception, of love, 
of beauty, of friendship, of talk, of reflection, are 
all drawn into one great flood of gratitude and 
thankfulness ; the thankfulness that comes from 
the thought that after all it is He that made us, 
and not we ourselves ; that we are indeed led and 
pastured by green meadows and waters of com- 
fort; in such a mood, all uneasy anxieties, all dull 
questionings, die and are merged, and we are glad 
to be. 



252 The Upton Letters 

Then suddenly falls a different mood, a touch 
of pathos, in the thought that there are some who 
from wilfulness, and vain desire, and troubled 
scheming, shut themselves out from the great in- 
heritance ; to them comes the pleading call, the 
sorrowful invitation : 

" To-day if ye will hear his voice, harden not your 
hearts ; as in the provocation, and as in the day of 
temptation in the wilderness.'''' 

** When your fathers tempted me : proved me, and saw 
my works. '''' 

And then rises the gathering wrath ; the doom 
of all perverse and stubborn natures, who will not 
yield, or be guided, or led ; who live in a wilful 
sadness, a petty obstinacy : 

'■'■ Forty years long zvas I grieved with this generation, 
and said : It is a people that do err in their hearts for 
they have not known my ways^ 

And then the passion of the mood, the fierce 
indignation, rises and breaks, as it were, in a 
dreadful thunderclap : 

*• Unto whom I sware in my wrath that they should not 
enter into my resty 

But even so the very horror of the denunciation 
holds within it a thought of beauty, like an oasis 



The Upton Letters 253 

in a burning desert. "My rest'' — that sweet 
haven which does truly await all those who will 
but follow and wait upon God. I declare that 
the effect of this amazing lyric grows upon me 
every time that I hear it. Some Psalms, like the 
delicate and tender cxix., steal into the heart 
after long and quiet use. How dull I used to find 
it as a child ; how I love it now! But this is not 
the case with the Venite ; its noble simplicity and 
directness has no touch of intentional subtlety 
about it. Rather the subtlety was in the true in- 
sight, which saw that, if ever there was a psalm 
which should at once give the reins to joy, and at 
the same time pierce the careless heart with a 
sharp arrow of thought, this was the Psalm. 

I feel as if I had been trying in this letter to do 
as Mr. Interpreter did — to have you into a room 
full of besoms and spiders, and to draw a pretty 
moral out of it all. But I am sure that the beauty 
of this particular Psalm, and of its position, is 
one of those things that is only spoiled for us by 
familiarity ; and that it is a duty in life to try 
and break through the crust of familiarity which 
tends to be deposited round well-known things, 
and to see how bright and joyful a jewel shows 
its heart of fire beneath. 



254 The Upton Letters 

I have been hoping for a letter ; but no doubt it 
is all right. I am before my time, I see.— Ever 
yours, X. B. 

Upton, October 25, 1904. 
DKAR HkrbkrT,— I have been studying, with 
a good deal of interest, two books, the Letters of 

Professor A , and the Life of Bishop F . 

Given the form, I think the editor of the letters 
has done his work well. His theory has been 
to let the Professor speak for himself; while he 
himself stands, like a discreet and unobtrusive 
guide, and just says what is necessary in the 
right place. In this, he is greatly to be com- 
mended ; for it happens too often that biographers 
of eminent men use their privilege to do a little 
adventitious self-advertisement. They blow their 
own trumpets; they stand and posture courteously 
in the ante-room, when what one desires is to go 
straight into the presence. 

I once had a little piece of biography to do 
which necessitated my writing requests for remi- 
niscences to several of the friends of the subject of 
my book. I never had such a strange revelation 
of human nature. A very few people gave me just 
what I wanted to know — facts, and sayings, and 



The Upton Letters 255 

trenchant actions. A second class of correspond- 
ents told me things which had a certain value — 
episodes in which my hero appeared, but inter- 
mingled with man}'- of their own opinions, doings, 
and sayings. A third class wrote almost exclu- 
sively about themselves, using my hero as a peg 
to hang their own remarks upon. The worst 
offender of all wrote me long reminiscences of his 
own conversations, in the following style : * * How 
well I remember the summer of i8 — , when dear 

P was staying at F . I and my wife had 

a little house in the neighbourhood. We found 
it convenient to be able to run down there and to 
rest a Httle after the fatigues of London life. I 

remember very well a walk I took with P . 

It was the time of the Franco- Prussian War, and 
I was full of indignation at the terrible sacrifice 
of life which appeared to me to be for no end. I 

remember pouring out my thoughts to P ." 

Here followed a page or two of reflections upon 

the barbarity of war. " P listened to me 

with great interest ; I cannot now recall what he 
said, but I know that it struck me very much at 
the time." And so on through many closely 
written pages. 

Well, the editor of the Professor's letters has 



256 The Upton Letters 

not done this at all ; he keeps himself entirely in 
the background. But, after reading the book, 
the reflection is borne in upon me that, unless the 
hero is a good letter-writer (and the Professor was 
not), the form of the book cannot be wholly justi- 
fied. Most of the letters are, so to speak, business 
letters ; they are either letters connected with 
ecclesiastical politics, or they are letters dealing 
with technical historical points. There are many 
little shrewd and humorous turns occurring in 
them. But these should, I think, have been ab- 
stracted from their context and worked into a 
narrative. The Professor was a man of singular 
character and individuality. Besides his enorm- 
ous erudition, he had a great fund of sterling 
common sense, a deep and liberal piety, and a 
most inconsequent and, I must add, undignified 
sense of humour. He carried almost to a vice 
the peculiarly English trait of national character — 
the extreme dislike of emotional statement, the 
inability to speak easily and unaffectedly on mat- 
ters of strong feeling and tender concern. I con- 
fess that this has a displeasing effect. When one 
desires above all things to have a glimpse into his 
mind, to be reassured as to his seriousness and 
piety, it is ten to one that the Professor will, so 



The Upton Letters 257 

to speak, pick up his skirts, and execute a series 
of clums}^, if comic, gambols and caracoles in front 
of you. A sense of humour is a very valuable 
thing, especially in a professor of theology ; but it 
should be of a seemly and pungent type, not the 
humour of a Merry Andrew. And one has the 
painful sense, especially in the most familiar let- 
ters of this collection, that the Professor took an 
almost puerile pleasure in trying to shock his 
correspondent, in showing how naughty he could 
be. One feels the same kind of shock as if one 
had gone to see the Professor on serious business, 
and found him riding on a rocking-horse in his 
study, with a paper cap on his head. There is 
nothing morally wrong about it ; but it appears 
to be silly, and silliness is out of place behind a 
gown and under a college cap. 

But the biography of Bishop F opens up a 

further and more interesting question, which I 
feel myself quite unequal to solving. One has a 
respect for erudition, of course, but I find myself 
pondering gloomily over the reasons for this re- 
spect. Is it only the respect that one feels for the 
man who devotes patient labour to the accomplish- 
ment of a difficult task, a task which demands 

great mental power ? What I am not clear about 
17 



258 The Upton Letters 

is what the precise value of the work of the erudite 
historian is. The primary value of history is its 
educational value. It is good for the mind to 
have a wide view of the world, to have a big per- 
spective of affairs. It corrects narrow, small, per- 
sonal views ; it brings one in contact with heroic, 
generous persons ; it displays noble qualities. It 
gives one glimpses of splendid self-sacrifice, of 
lives devoted to a high cause ; it sets one aglow 
with visions of patriotism, liberty, and justice. 
It shows one also the darker side ; how great na- 
tures can be neutralised or even debased by un- 
corrected faults ; how bigotry can triumph over 
intelligence; how high hopes can be disappointed. 
All this is saddening ; yet it deepens and widens 
the mind ; it teaches one what to avoid ; it brings 
one near to the deep and patient purposes of God. 
But then there is a temptation to think that 
vivid, picturesque, stimulating writers can do 
more to develop this side of history than patient, 
laborious, just writers. One begins to be in- 
clined to forgive anything but dulness in a writer ; 
to value vitality above accuracy, colour above 
truth. One is tempted to feel that the researches 
of erudite historians end only in proving that 
white is not so white, and black not so black as 



The Upton Letters 259 

one had thought. That generous persons had a 
seamy side ; that dark and villainous characters 
had so much to be urged in excuse for their mis- 
deeds. This is evidently a wrong frame of mind, 
and one is disposed to say that one must pursue 
truth before everything. But then comes in the 
difificulty that truth is so often not to be ascer- 
tained ; that documentary evidence is incomplete, 
and that even documents themselves do not reveal 
motives. Of course, the perfect combination 
would be to have great erudition, great common 
sense and justice, and great enthusiasm and 
vigour as well. It is obviously a disadvantage to 
have a historian who suppresses vital facts be- 
cause they do not fit in with a preconceived view 
of characters, but still I find it hard to resist the 
conviction that, from the educational point of 
view, stimulus is more important than exactness. 
It is more important that a boy should take a side, 
should admire and abhor, than that he should 
have very good reasons for doing so. For it is 
character and imagination that we want to affect 
rather than the mastery of minute points and 
subtleties. 

Thus, from an educational point of view, I 
should consider that Froude was a better writer 



26o The Upton Letters 

than Freeman ; just as I should consider it more 
important that a boy should care for Virgil than 
that he should be sure that he had the best text. 

I think that what I feel to be the most desirable 
thing of all is, that boj^s should learn somehow to 
care for history— however prejudiced a view they 
take of it — when they are young ; and that, when 
they are older, they should correct misapprehen- 
sions, and try to arrive at a more complete and 
just view. 

Then I go on to my further point, and here I 
find myself in a still darker region of doubt. I 
must look upon it, I suppose, as a direct assault 
of the Bvil One, and hold out the shield of faith 
against the fiery darts. 

What, I ask myself, is, after all, the use of this 
practice of erudition? What class of the com- 
munity does it, nay, can it, benefit? The only 
class that I can even dimly connect with any 
benefits resulting from it is the class of practical 
politicians ; and yet, in politics, I see a tendency 
more and more to neglect the philosophical and 
abstruse view ; and to appeal more and more to 
later precedents, not to search among the origins 
of things. Nay, I would go further, and say that 
a pedantic and elaborate knowledge of history 



The Upton Letters 261 

hampers rather than benefits the practical poli- 
tician. It is not so with all the learned profes- 
sions. The man of science may hope that his 
researches may have some direct effect in enrich- 
ing the blood of the world. He may fight the 
ravages of disease, he may ameliorate life in a 
hundred wa3'S. 

But these exponents of learning, these restorers 
of ancient texts, these disentanglers of grammati- 
cal subtleties, these divers among ancient chroni- 
cles and forgotten charters — what is it that they 
do but multiply and revive useless knowledge, 
and make it increasingly difficult for a man to 
arrive at a broad and philosophical view, or ever 
attack his subject at the point where it may con- 
ceivably affect humanity or even character ? The 
problem of the modern world is the multiplication 
of books and records, and every new detail 
dragged to light simply encumbers the path of 
the student. I have no doubt that this is a shal- 
low and feeble-minded view. But I am not ad- 
vancing it as a true view ; I am only imploring 
help ; I onl}^ desire light. I am only too ready to 
believe in the virtues and uses of erudition, if any 
one will point them out to me. But at present it 
only appears to me like a gigantic mystification, 



262 The Upton Letters 

enabling those who hold richly endowed posts to 
justify themselves to the worid, and to keep the 
patronage of these emoluments in their own 
hands. Supposing, as a reductio ad absurdum, 
that some wealthy individual were to endow an 
institution in order that the members of it might 
count the number of threads in carpets. One can 
imagine a philosophical defence being made of 
the pursuit. A man might say that it was above 
all things necessary to classify, and investigate, 
and to arrive at the exact truth ; to compare the 
number of threads in different carpets, and that 
the sordid difficulties which encumbered such a 
task should not be regarded in the light of the fact 
that here, at least, exact results had been obtained. 
Of course, that is all very silly ! But I believe ; 
onl}^ I want my unbelief helped ! If you can tell 
me what services are rendered by erudition to 
national life, you will relieve my doubts. Do not 
merely say that it enlarges the bounds of know- 
ledge, unless you are also prepared to prove that 
knowledge is, per se, a desirable thing. I am not 
sure that it is not a hideous idol, a Mumbo 
Jumbo, a Moloch in whose honour children have 
still to pass through the fire in the recesses of dark 
academic groves. — Ever yours, T. B. 



The Upton Letters 263 

Upton, November i, 1904. 

My dear Herbert, — I have read, after a 
fashion, in the course of the last month, the Au- 
tobiography of Herbert Spencer. I know nothing 
of his philosophy — I doubt if I have read half a 
dozen pages of his writings ; and the man, as re- 
vealed in his own transparent confessions, is 
almost wholly destitute of attractiveness. All the 
same it is an intensely interesting book, because 
it is the attempt of a profound egotist to give a 
perfectly sincere picture of his life. Of course, I 
should have read it with greater appreciation if I 
had studied or cared for his books ; but I take for 
granted that he was a great man, and accom- 
plished a great work, and I like to see how he 
achieved it. 

The book is the strongest argument I have ever 
yet read against a rational education. I who de- 
spair of the public-school classical system, am re- 
luctantly forced to confess that it can sow the 
seeds of fairer flowers than ever blossomed in the 
soul of Herbert Spencer. He was by no means 
devoid of aesthetic perception. He says that the 
sight of a mountain, and music heard in a cathe- 
dral were two of the things that moved him most. 
He describes a particular sunset which he saw in 



264 The Upton Letters 

Scotland, and describes the experience as the 
cHmax of his emotional sensations. He was de- 
voted to music, and had a somewhat contemptuous 
enjoyment of pictures. But the arrogance and 
impenetrability of the man rise up on every page. 
He cannot say frankly that he does not under- 
stand art and literature ; he dogmatises about 
them, and gives the reader to understand that 
there is really nothing in them. He criticises the 
classics from the standpoint of a fourth form boy. 
He sits like a dry old spider, spinning his philo- 
sophical web, with a dozen avenues of the soul 
closed to him, and denying that such avenues 
exist. As a statistical and sociological expert he 
ought to have taken into account the large num- 
ber of people who are affected by what we may 
call the beautiful, and to have allowed for its ex- 
istence even if he could not feel it. But no, he is 
perfectly self-satisfied, perfectly decided. And 
this is the more surprising because the man was 
in reality a hedonist. He protests finely in more 
than one place against those who make life sub- 
sidiary to work. He is quite clear on the point 
that work is only a part of life, and that to live is 
the object of man. Again, he states that the 
pursuit of innocent pleasure is a thing to which it 



The Upton Letters 265 

is justifiable to devote some energy, and yet this 
does not make him tolerant. The truth is that 
he was so supremely egotistical, so entirely 
wrapped up in himself and his own life, that what 
other people did and cared for was a matter of 
entire indifference to him. His social tastes, and 
they were considerable, were all devoted to one 
and the same purpose. He liked staying at 
agreeable country houses, because it was a pleas- 
ant distraction to him and improved his health. 
He liked dining out, because it stimulated his 
digestion. All human relationships are made 
subservient to the same end. It never seems to 
him to be a duty to minister to the pleasure of 
others. He takes what he can get at the banquet 
of life, and, having secured his share, goes away 
to digest it. When, at the end of his life, social 
entertainments tried his nerves, he gave them up. 
When people came to see him, and he found 
himself getting tired or excited by conversation, 
if it was not convenient to him to leave the room, 
he put stoppers in his ears to blur the sense of the 
talk. What better parable of the elaborate frame- 
work of egotism on which his life was constructed 
could there be than the following legend, not de- 
rived from the book? One evening, the story 



266 The Upton Letters 

goes, the philosopher had invited, at his club, a 
youthful stranger to join him in a game of bil- 
liards. The young man, who was a proficient, 
ran out in two breaks, leaving his rival a hopeless 
distance behind. When he had finished, Spencer, 
with a severe air, said to him : " To play billiards 
in an ordinary manner is an agreeable adjunct to 
life ; to play as you have been playing is evidence 
of a misspent youth." A man who was not an 
egotist and a philosopher, however much he dis- 
liked the outcome of the game, would have at- 
tempted some phrases of commendation. But 
Spencer's view was, that anything which rendered 
a player of billiards less useful to himself, by giv- 
ing him fewer opportunities in the course of a 
game for what he would have called healthful and 
pleasurable recreation, was not only not to be tol- 
erated, but was to be morally reprobated. 

As to his health, a subject which occupies the 
larger part of the volumes, it is evident that, 
though his nervous system was deranged, he was 
a complete hypochondriac. There is very little 
repining about the invalid conditions under which 
he lived ; and it gradually dawned upon me that 
this was not because he had resolved to bear it in 
a stoical and courageous manner, but because his 



The Upton Letters 267 

ill-health, seen through the rosy spectacles of the 
egotist, was a matter of pleasurable excitement to 
him ; he complains a good deal of the peculiar 
sensations he experienced, and his broken nights, 
but with a solemn satisfaction in the whole ex- 
perience. He never had to bear physical pain, 
and the worst evil from which he suffered was the 
boredom resulting from the way in which he had 
to try, or conceived that he had to try, to kill time 
without reading or working. 

Of course, one cannot help admiring the tena- 
cious way in which he carried out his great work 
under unfavourable conditions. Yet there is 
something ridiculous in the picture of his rowing 
about in a boat on the Regent's Park I^ake, with 
an amanuensis in the stern, dictating under the 
lee of an island until his sensations returned, and 
then rowing until they subsided again. As a 
hedonist, he distinctly calculated that his work 
gave the spice to his life, and that he would not 
have been so happy had he relinquished it. But 
there is nothing generous or noble about his 
standpoint ; he Hked writing and philosophising, 
and he preferred to do it even though it entailed 
a certain amount of invalidism, in the same spirit 
in which a man prefers to drink champagne with 



268 The Upton Letters 

the prospect of suffering from the gout, rather 
than to renounce champagne and gout ahke. 

The man's face is in itself a parable. He has 
the high, domed forehead of the philosopher, and 
a certain geniality of eye ; but the hard, thin- 
lipped mouth, with the deep lines from the nose, 
give him the air of an elderly chimpanzee. He 
has a hand like a bird's claw ; and the antique 
shirt-front and small bow-tie denote the man who 
has fixed his opinions on the cut of his clothes at 
an early date and does not intend to modify them. 

Quite apart from the intense seriousness with 
which the sage took himself, down to the smallest 
details, the style of the book, dry as it is, is in 
itself grotesquely attractive. 

There is something in the use of solemn scien- 
tific terminology, when dealing with the most 
trivial matters, which makes many passages ir- 
resistibly ludicrous. I wish that I could think 
that the writer of the following lines wrote them 
with any consciousness of how humorous a pas- 
sage he was constructing : 

' ' With me any tendency towards facetiousness 
is the result of temporary elation, either . . . 
caused by pleasurable health-giving change, or 
more commonly by meeting old friends. Habit- 



The Upton Letters 269 

ually I observed that on seeing the Lotts after a 
long interval, I was apt to give vent to some witti- 
cisms during the first hour or two, and then they 
became rare. ' ' 

I can't say that the life is a sad one, because, 
on the whole, it is a contented one ; but it is so 
one-sided and so self-absorbed that one feels dried- 
up and depressed by it. One feels that great 
ability, great perseverance, may yet leave a man 
very cold and hard ; that a man may penetrate 
the secrets of philosophy and yet never become 
wise ; and one ends by feeling that simplicity, 
tenderness, a love of beautiful and gracious things 
are worth far more than great mental achieve- 
ment. Or rather, I suppose, that one has to pay 
a price for everything, and that the price that this 
dyspeptic philosopher paid for his great work was 
to move through the world in a kind of frigid 
blindness, missing Hfe after all, and bartering 
reality for self-satisfacion. 

Curiously enough, I have at the same time been 
reading the life of another self-absorbed and high- 
minded personality — the late Dean Farrar. This 
is a book the piety of which is more admirable 
than the literary skill ; but probably the tender 
partiality with which it is written makes it a more 



270 The Upton Letters 

valuable document from the point of view of re- 
vealing personality than if it had been more 
critically treated. 

Farrar was probably the exact opposite of Her- 
bert Spencer in almost every respect. He was 
a litterateur, a rhetorician, an idealist, where 
Spencer was a philosopher, a scientific man, and 
a rationalist. Farrar admired high literature 
with all his heart ; though unfortunately it did 
not clarify his own taste, but only gave him a rich 
vocabulary of high-sounding words, which he 
bound into a flaunting bouquet. He was like the 
bower-bird, which takes delight in collecting 
bright objects of any kind, bits of broken china, 
fragments of metal, which it disposes with dis- 
tressing prominence about its domicile, and runs 
to and fro admiring the fantastic pattern. The 
fabric of Farrar' s writing is essentially thin ; his 
thoughts rarely rose above the commonplace, and 
to these thoughts he gave luscious expression, 
sticking the flowers of rhetoric, of which his mar- 
vellous memory gave him the command, so as to 
ornament without adorning. 

Every one must have been struck in Farrar' s 
works of fiction by the affected tone of speech 
adopted by his saintly and high-minded heroes. 



The Upton Letters 271 

It was not affectation in Farrar to speak and write 
in this way; it was the form in which his thoughts 
naturally arranged themselves. But in one sense 
it was affected, because Farrar seems to have been 
naturally a kind of dramatist. I imagine that his 
self-consciousness was great, and I expect that he 
habitually lived with the feeling of being the 
central figure in a kind of romantic scene. The 
pathos of the situation is that he was naturally a 
noble-minded man. He had a high conception of 
beauty, both artistic and moral beauty. He did 
live in the regions to which he directed others. 
But this is vitiated by a desire for recognition, a 
definite, almost a confessed, ambition. The let- 
ter, for instance, in which he announces that he 
has accepted a Canonry at Westminster is a pain- 
ful one. If he felt the inexpressible distress, of 
which he speaks, at the idea of leaving Marl- 
borough, there was really no reason why he should 
not have stayed ; and, later on, his failure to at- 
tain to high ecclesiastical office seems to have 
resulted in a sense of compassion for the inade- 
quacy of those who failed to discern real merit, 
and a certain bitterness of spirit which, con- 
sidering his services to religion and morality, 
was not wholly unnatural. But he does not seem 



272 The Upton Letters 

to have tried to interpret the disappointment that 
he felt, or to have asked himself whether the 
reason of his failure did not rather lie in his own 
temperament. 

The kindness of the man, his laboriousness, his 
fierce indignation against moral evil, to say no- 
thing of his extraordinary mental powers, seem to 
have been clogged all through life by this sad self- 
consciousness. The pity and the mystery of it is 
that a man should have been so moulded to help 
his generation, and then that this grievous defect 
of temperament should have been allowed to take 
its place as the tyrant of the whole nature. And 
what makes the whole situation even more tragic 
is that it was through a certain transparency of 
nature that this egotism became apparent to 
others. He was a man who seemed bound to 
speak of all that was in his mind ; that was a part 
of his rhetorical temperament. But if he could 
have held his tongue, if he could have kept his 
own weakness of spirit concealed, he might have 
achieved the very successes which he desired, 
and, indeed, deserved. The result is that a richly 
endowed character achieves no conspicuous great- 
ness, either as a teacher, a speaker, a writer, or 
even as a man. 



The Upton Letters 273 

The moral of these two books is this : How can 
any one whose character is deeply tinged by this 
sort of egotism — and it is the shadow of all eager 
and sensitive temperaments — best fight against 
it ? Can it be subdned, can it be concealed, can 
it be cured ? I hardly dare to think so. But I 
think that a man may deliberately resolve not to 
make recognition an object ; and next, I believe 
he may most successfully fight against egotism in 
ordinary life by regarding it mainly as a question 
of manners. If a man can only, in early life, get 
into his head that it is essentially bad manners to 
thrust himself forward, and determine rather to 
encourage others to speak out what is in their 
minds, a habit can be acquired ; and probably, 
upon acquaintance, an interest in the .point of 
view of others will grow. That is not a very 
lofty solution, but I believe it to be a practical 
one; and certainly, for a man of egotistic nature, 
it is a severe and fruitful lesson to read the lives 
of two such self-absorbed characters as Spencer 
and Farrar, and to vSee, in the one case, how ugly 
and distorting a fault, in the other, how hamper- 
ing a burden it may become. 

Egotism is really a failure of sympathy, a 
failure of justice, a failure of proportion, and to 



274 The Upton Letters 

recognise this is the first step towards establishing 
a desire to be loving, just, and well-balanced. 

But still the mystery remains : and I think that 
perhaps the most wholesome attitude is to be 
grateful for what in the way of work, of precept, 
of example these men achieved, and to leave the 
mystery of their faults to their Maker, in the 
noble spirit of Gray's Elegy : 

*' No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
The bosom of his Father and his God.'* 



-Kver yours, 

T. B. 



Monk's Orchard, Upton, 

November 8, 1904. 

Dkar Herbert, — I have been trying to read 
the letters of T. K. Brown. Do you know any- 
thing about him ? He was a Manxman by birth, 
a fellow of Oriel, a Clifton Master for many years, 
and at the end of his life a Manxman again — he 
held a living there. He wrote some spirited tales 
in verse, in the Manx vernacular, and he was 
certainly a poet at heart. He was fond of music, 
and a true lover of nature. He had a genius for 



The Upton Letters 275 

friendship, and evidently had the gift of inspiring 
other people ; high-minded and intelligent men 
speak of him, in the little memoir that precedes 
the letters, with a pathetic reverence and a pro- 
found belief in the man's originality, and even 
genius. I was so sure that I should enjoy the 
book that I ordered it before it was published, 
and, when it appeared, it was a very profound 
disappointment. I don't mean to say that there 
are not beautiful things in it ; it shows one a 
wholesome nature and a grateful, kindly heart ; 
but, in the first place, he writes a terrible style, 
the kind of style that imposes on simple people 
because it is allusive, and what is called uncon- 
ventional ; to me it is simply spasmodic and 
affected. The man seems, as a rule, utterly un- 
able to say anything in a simple and delicate way; 
his one object appears to be not to use the obvious 
word. He has a sort of jargon of his own— a 
dreadful jargon. He must write *'crittur" or 
**craythur," when he means "creature"; he 
says, *'Yiss, ma'am, I'd be glad to jine the 
Book Club"; he uses the word ''galore"; he 
talks of *'the resipiscential process" when he 
means growing wiser— at least I think that is 
what he means. The following, taken quite at 



276 The Upton Letters 

random, are specimens of the sort of passages 
that abound: 

" Rain, too, is one of my joys. I want to wash 
myself, soak myself in it ; hang myself over a 
meridian to dry ; dissolve (still better) into rags 
of soppy disintegration, blotting paper, mash and 
splash and hash of inarticulate protoplasm." 

I suppose that both he and his friends thought 
that picturesque ; to me it is neither beautiful 
nor amusing — simply ugly and aggravating. 

Here again : 

" On the Quantocks I feel fairies all round me, 
the good folk, meet companions for young poets. 
How Coleridge, more especially, fits in to such 
surroundings ! * Fairies ? ' say you. Well, 
there 's odds of fairies, and of the sort I mean 
Coleridge was the absolute Puck. ' Puck ? ' says 

you. ' For shame ! ' says you. No, d n it ! 

I '11 stick to that. There 's odds o' fairies, and 
often enough I think the world is nothing else ; 
troops, societies, hierarchies — S.T.C., a supreme 
hierarch ; look at his face ; think of meeting him 
at moonlight between Stowey and Alfoxden, like 
a great white owl, soft and plumy, with eyes of 
flame!" 

I confess that such passages simply make me 



The Upton Letters 277 

blush, leave me with a kind of mental nausea. 
What makes it worse is that there is something 
in what he says, if he would only say it better. 
It makes me feel as I should feel if I saw an 
elderly, heavily built clergyman amusing himself 
in a public place with a skipping-rope, to show 
what a child of nature he was. 

I cannot help feeling that the man was a poseur, 
and that his affectations were the result of livins: 
in a small and admiring coterie. If, when one 
begins to write and talk in that jesting way, there 
is some one at your elbow to say, " How refresh- 
ing, how original, how rugged ! " I suppose that 
one begins to think that one had better indulge 
oneself in such absurdities. But readers outside 
the circle turn away in disgust. 

The pity of it is that Brown had something of 
the Celtic spirit — the melancholy, the mystery of 
that sensitive and delicate temperament ; but it is 
vitiated by what I can only call a schoolmaster's 
humour— cheap and silly, such as imposes on im- 
mature minds. When he was quite serious and 
simple, he wrote beautiful, quiet, wise letters, 
dealing with deep things in a dignified way ; but, 
as a rule, he thought it necessary to cut ugly 
capers, and to do what can only be described as 



278 The Upton Letters 

playing the fool. I wish with all my heart that 
these letters had not been published ; they de- 
form and disfigure a beautiful spirit and a quick 
imagination. 

Pose, afiectation — what a snare they are to the 
better kind of minds. I declare that I value 
every day more and more the signs of simphcity, 
the people who say what they mean, and as they 
mean it; who don't think what they think is 
expected of them, but what they really feel ; 
who don't pretend to enjoy what they don't 
enjoy, or to understand what they don't under- 
stand. 

I may be all wrong about Brown, of course, for 
the victory always remains with the people who 
admire, rather than with the people who criticise ; 
people cannot be all on the same plane, and it is 
of no use to quench enthusiasm by saying, 
* ' When you are older and wiser you will think 
differently." The result of that kind of snub is 
only to make people hold their tongues, and think 
one an old-fashioned pedant. I sometimes wonder 
whether there is an absolute standard of beauty at 
all, whether taste is not a sort of epidemic con- 
tagion, and whether the accredited man of taste 
is not, as some one says, the man who has the 



The Upton Letters 279 

good fortune to agree most emphatically with the 
opinion of the majority. 

I am sure, however, you would not like the 
book ; though I don't say that you might not ex- 
tract, as I do to my shame, a kind of bitter pleas- 
ure in thinking how unconsciously absurd it is — 
the pleasure one gets from watching the move- 
ments and gestures, and listening to the remarks 
of a profoundly affected and complacent person. 
But that is not an elevated kind of pleasure, when 
all is said and done ! 

" We get no good, 
By being ungenerous, even to a book !" 

as Mrs. Browning says. . . . — Kver yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, November 15, 1904. 

My dear Hkrbkrt,— a controversy, a con- 
test ! How they poison all one's thoughts ! I 
am at present wading, as Ruskin says, in a sad 
marsh or pool of thought. Let me indicate to 
you without excessive detail the kind of thing 
that is going on. 

We have been discussing the introduction here 
of certain important educational reforms, in the 



28o The Upton Letters 

direction of modernising and simplifying our 
curriculum. 

Now we are all one body here, no doubt, like 
the Christian Church in the hymn ; but un- 
happily, and unlike the hymn, we a7x very 
much divided. We are in two camps. There is 
a conservative section who, doubtless for very 
good reasons, w^ant to keep things as they are ; 
they see strongly all the blessings of the old order; 
they like the old ways and believe in them ; they 
think, for instance, that the old classical lines of 
education are the best, that the system fortifies 
the mind, and that, when you have been through 
it, you have got a good instrument which enables 
3^ou to tackle anything else ; a very coherent po- 
sition, and, in the case of our conservatives, very 
conscientiously administered. 

Then there is a strong progressive party, nu- 
merically rather stronger, to which I myself 
belong. We believe that things might be a good 
deal better. We are dissatisfied with our results. 
We think, to take the same instance, that classics 
are a very hard subject, and that a great many 
boys are not adapted to profit by them; we believe 
that the consequence of boys being kept at a hard 
subject, which they cannot penetrate or master, 



The Upton Letters 281 

leads to a certain cynicism about intellectual 
things, and that the results of a classical educa- 
tion on many boys are so negative that at all 
events some experiments ought to be tried. 

Well, if all discussions could be conducted pa- 
tiently, good-humouredly, and philosophically, 
no harm would be done; but they can't. Men 
will lose their temper, indulge in personalities, 
and import bitterness into the question. More- 
over, a number of my fiercest opponents are among 
my best friends here, and that is naturally very 
painful. Indeed, I feel how entirely unfitted I 
am for these kinds of controversy. This disgust- 
ing business deprives me of sleep, makes me un- 
able to concentrate my mind upon my work, 
destroys both my tranquillity and my philosophy. 

It is a relief to write to you on the subject. 
Yet I don't see my way out. One must have an 
opinion about one's life-work. My business is 
education, and I have tried to use my eyes and 
see things as they are. I am quite prepared to 
admit that I may be wrong; but if everybody who 
formed opinions abstained from expressing them 
out of deference to the people who were not pre- 
pared to admit that they themselves could be mis- 
taken, there would be an end of all progress. 



282 The Upton Letters 

Minds of the sturdy, unconvinced order are gen- 
erally found to range themselves on the side of 
things as they are ; and that is at all events a 
good guarantee that things won't move too fast, 
and against the trying of rash experiments. 

But I don't want to be rash ; I think that for a 
great many boys our type of education is a failure, 
and I want to see if something cannot be devised 
to meet their needs. But my opponents won't 
admit any failure. They say that the boys whom 
I think end by being hopelessly uneducated 
would be worse off if they had not been grounded 
in the classics. They say that my theory is only 
to make things easier for boys ; and they add 
that, if any boy's education is an entire failure 
(they admit a few incapables are to be found), it 
is the boy's own fault ; he has been idle and list- 
less ; if he had worked properly, it would have 
been all right ; he would have been fortified ; and 
anyhow, they say, it does n't matter what you 
teach such boys — they would have been hopeless 
anyhow. 

Of course, the difficulty ot proving my case is 
great. You can't, in education, get two exactly 
parallel boys and try the effect of different types 
of education on the two. A chemist can put 



The Upton Letters 283 

exactly the same quantity of some salt in two ves- 
sels, and, by treating them in different ways, pro- 
duce a demonstration which is irrefragable. But 
no two boys are exactly alike, and, while classics 
are demanded at the university, boys of ability will 
tend to keep on the classical side ; so that the ad- 
mitted failure of modern sides in many places to 
produce boys of high intellectual ability results 
from the fact that boys of ability do not tend to 
join the modern sides. 

So one hammers on, and, as it is always easier 
to leave an object at rest than to set it moving, 
we remain very much where we were. 

The cynical solution is to say, let us have peace 
at any cost ; let the thing alone ; let us teach what 
we have to teach, and not bother about results. 
But that appears to me to be a cowardly attitude. 
If one expresses dissatisfaction to one of the 
cheerful stationary party, they reply, " Oh, take 
our word for it, it is all right ; do your best ; you 
don't teach at all badly, though you lack convic- 
tion ; leave it to us, and never mind the discontent 
expressed by parents, and the cynical contempt 
felt by boys for intellectual things." 

"Meanwhile, regardless of their doom, 
The little victims play." 



284 The Upton Letters 

They do indeed ! they find work so dispiriting 
a business that they put it out of their thoughts 
as much as they can. And when they grow up, 
conscious of intellectual feebleness, they have no 
idea of expressing their resentment at the way 
they have been used — if they are modest, they 
think that it is their own fault ; if they are com- 
placent, they think that intellectual things don't 
matter. 

While I write there comes in one of my cheerful 
opponents to discuss the situation. We plunge 
into the subject of classics. I say that, to boys 
without aptitude, they are dreary and hopelessly 
difiicult. " There you go again," he says, 
' ' always wanting to make things easier : the 
thing to do is to keep boys at hard, solid work ; 
it is an advantage that they can't understand 
what they are working at ; it is a better gym- 
nastic." The subject of mathematics is men- 
tioned, and my friend incidentally confesses that 
he never had the least idea what higher algebra 
was all about. 

I refrain from saying what comes into my 
mind. Supposing that he, without any taste for 
mathematics, had been kept year after year at 
them, surely that would have been acting on his 



The Upton Letters 285 

principle, viz., to find out what boys can't do and 
make them do it. No doubt he would say that 
his mind had been fortified, as it was, by classics. 
But, if a rigid mathematical training had been em- 
ployed, his mind might have been fortified into an 
enviable condition of inaccessibility. But I don't 
say this ; he would only think I was making fun 
of the whole thing. 

Fun, indeed ! There is very little amusement 
to be derived from the situation. My opponents 
have a strong sense of what they call liberty — 
which means that every one should have a vote, 
and that every one should register it in their 
favour. Or they are like the old-fashioned 
Whigs, who had a strong belief in popular lib- 
erty, and an equally unshaken belief in their own 

personal superiority. — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, November 22, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — '* Be partner of ni}^ dreams 
as of mj^ fishing," says the old fisherman to his 
mate, in that delicious idyll of Theocritus — do 
read it again. It is one of the little masterpieces 
that hang for ever in one of the inner secret rooms 
of the great halls of poetry. The two old men lie 



286 The Upton Letters 

awake in their wattled cabin, listening to the soft 
beating of the sea, and beguiling the dark hour 
before the dawn, when they must fare forth, in 
simple talk about their dreams. It is 2. genre pic- 
ture, full of simple detail, but with a vein of high 
poetry about it ; all remote from history and civic 
life, in that eternal region of perfect and quiet art, 
into which, thank God, one can always turn to 
rest awhile. 

But to-day I don't want to talk of fishermen, 
or Theocritus, or even art ; I want you to share 
one of my dreams. 

I must preface it by saying that I have just ex- 
perienced a severe humiliation; I have been deeply 
wounded. I won't trouble you with the sordid, 
details, but it has been one of those severe checks 
one sometimes experiences, when a mirror is held 
up to one's character, and one sees an ugly sight. 
Never mind that now ! But you can imagine my 
frame of mind. 

I bicycled oflf alone in the afternoon, feeling 
very sore and miserable in spirit. It was one of 
those cool, fresh, dark November days, not so 
much gloomy as half-lit and colourless. There 
was not a breath stirring. The long fields, the 
fallows, with hedges and coverts, melted into a 



The Upton Letters 287 

light mist, which hid all the distant view. I 
moved in a narrow twilight circle, myself the 
centre ; the road was familiar enough to me ; at a 
certain point there is a little lodge, with a road 
turning off to a farm. It is many years since I 
visited the place, but I remembered dimly that 
there was some interest of antiquity about the 
house, and I determined to explore it. The road 
curved away among quiet fields, with here and 
there a belt of woodland, then entered a little 
park ; there I saw a cluster of buildings on the 
edge of a pool, all grown up with little elms and 
ashes, now bare of leaves. Here I found a 
friendly, gaitered farmer, who, in reply to my 
question whether I could see the place, gave me a 
cordial invitation to come in ; he took me to a 
garden door, opened it, and beckoned me to go 
through. I found myself in a place of incompara- 
ble beauty. It was a long terrace, rather wild 
and neglected ; below there were the traces of a 
great, derelict garden, with thick clumps of box, 
the whole surrounded by a large earthwork, cov- 
ered with elms. To the left lay another pool ; to 
the right, at the end of the terrace, stood a small 
red-brick chapel, with a big Perpendicular win- 
dow. The house was to the left of us, in the 



288 The Upton Letters 

centre of the terrace, of old red brick, with tall 
chimneys and muUioned windows. My friend 
the farmer chatted pleasantly about the house, but 
was evidently prouder of his rose-trees and his 
chrysanthemums. The day grew darker, as we 
wandered, and a pleasant plodding and clinking 
of horses coming home made itself heard in the 
yard. Then he asked me to enter the house. 
What was my surprise when he led me into a 
large hall, with painted panels and a painted ceil- 
ing, occupying all the centre of the house. He 
told me a little of the history of the place, of a 
visit paid by Charles the First, and other simple 
traditions, showing me all the time a quiet, serious 
kindness, which reminded one of the entertain- 
ment given to the wayfarers of the Pilgrim's 
Progress. 

Once more we went out on the little terrace and 
looked round ; the night began to fall, and lights 
began to twinkle in the house, while the fire 
glowed and darted in the hall. 

But what I cannot, I am afraid, impart to you 
is the strange tranquillity that came softly down 
into my mind ; everything took its part in this 
atmosphere of peace. The overgrown terrace, the 
mellow brickwork, the bare trees, the tall house, 



The Upton Letters 289 

the gentle kindliness of my host. And then I 
seemed so far away from the world ; there was 
nothing in sight but the fallows and the woods, 
rounded with mist ; it seemed at once the only 
place in the world, and yet out of it. The old 
house stood patiently waiting, serving its quiet 
ends, growing in beauty every year, seemingly so 
unconscious of its grace and charm, and yet, as 
it were, glad to be loved. It seemed to give me 
just the calm, the tenderness I wanted. To as- 
sure me that, whatever pain and humiliation there 
were in the world, there was a strong and loving 
Heart behind. My host said good-bye to me very 
kindly, begging me to come again and bring any 
one to see the place. *' We are very lonely here, 
and it does us good to see a stranger." 

I rode away, and stopped at a corner where a 
last view of the house was possible ; it stood re- 
garding me, it seemed, mournfully, and yet with 
a solemn welcome from its dark windows. And 
here was another beautiful vignette ; close to me, 
by a hedge, stood an old labourer, a fork in one 
hand, the other shading his eyes, watching with 
simple intentness a flight of wild-duck that was 
passing overhead, dipping to some sequestered 
pool. 



290 The Upton Letters 

I rode away with a quiet hopefulness in my 
heart. I seemed like a dusty and weary waj^farer, 
who has flung off his heated garments and plunged 
into the clear waters of comfort ; to have drawn 
near to the heart of the world ; to have had a 
sight, in the midst of things mutable and dis- 
quieting, of things august and everlasting. At 
another time I might have flung myself into busy 
fancies, imagined a community living an orderly 
and peaceful life, full of serene activities, in that 
still place ; but for once I was content to have 
seen a dwelling-place, devised by some busy hu- 
man brain, that had failed of its purpose, lost its 
ancient lords, sunk into a calm decay ; to have 
seen it all caressed and comforted and embraced 
by nature, its scars hidden, its grace replenished, 
its harshness smoothed away. 

Such gentle hours are few ; and fewer still the 
moments of anxiety and vexation when so direct 
a message is flashed straight from the mind of 
God into the unquiet human heart ; I never 
doubted that I was led there by a subtle, delicate, 
and fatherly tenderness, and shown a thing which 
should at once touch my sense of beauty, and then 
rising, as it were, and putting the superficial as- 
pect aside, speak with no uncertain voice of the 



The Upton Letters 291 

deep hopes, the everlasting peace on which for a 
few years the Httle restless world of ours is rocked 
and carried to and fro. . . . — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, November 29, 1904. 
Dkar Herbert, — To-day the world is 
shrouded in a thick, white, dripping mist. 
Glancing up in the warm room where I sit, I see 
nothing but grey window spaces. " How melan- 
choly, how depressing," says my generally cheer- 
ful friend, Randall, staring sadly out into the 
blank air. But I myself do not agree. I am con- 
scious of a vague, pleasurable excitement ; a 
sense, too, of repose. This half-light is grateful 
and cooling alike to eye and brain. Then, too, 
it is a change from ordinary conditions, and a 
change has always something invigorating about 
it. I steal about with an obscure sense that some- 
thing mysterious is happening. And yet imagine 
some bright spirit of air and sunshine, like Ariel, 
flitting hither and thither above the mist, dipping 
his feet in the vapour, as a vSea-bird flies low across 
the sea. Think of the pity he would feel for the 
poor human creatures, buried in darkness below, 
creeping hither and thither in the gloom. 



292 The Upton Letters 

It is pleasurable enough within the house, but 
still more pleasurable to walk abroad ; the little 
circle of dim vision passes with you, just revealing 
the road, the field, the pasture in which you walk. 

There is a delightful surprise about the way in 
which a familiar object looms up suddenly, a dim 
remote shape, and then as swiftly reveals the 
well-known outline. My path takes me past the 
line, and I hear a train that I cannot see roar past. 
I hear the sharp crack of the fog signals and the 
whistle blown. I pass close to the huge, dripping 
signals ; there, in a hut beside a brazier, sits a 
plate-layer with his pole, watching the line, ready 
to push the little disc off the metals if the creak- 
ing signal overhead moves. In another lonely 
place stands a great luggage train waiting. The 
little chimney of the van smokes, and I hear the 
voices of guards and shunters talking cheerily 
together. I draw nearer home, and enter the col- 
lege by the garden entrance. The black foliage 
of the ilex lowers overhead, and then in a mo- 
ment, out of an overshadowing darkness, rises a 
battlemented tower like a fairy castle, with lights 
in the windows streaming out with straight golden 
rays into the fog. Below, the arched doorway re- 
veals the faintly lighted arches of the cloisters. 



The Upton Letters 293 

The hanging, clinging, soaking mist — how it 
heightens the value, the comfort of the lighted 
windows of studious, fire- warmed rooms. 

And then what a wealth of pleasant images 
rises in the mind. I find myself thinking how 
the reading of certain authors is like this mist- 
walking ; one seems to move in a dreary, narrow 
circle, and then suddenly a dim horror of black- 
ness stands up ; and then, again, in a moment one 
sees that it is some familiar thought which has 
thus won a stateliness, a remote mystery, from the 
atmosphere out of which it leans. 

Or, better still, how like these fog- wrapped days 
are to seasons of mental heaviness, when the 
bright, distant landscape is all swallowed up and 
cherished landmarks disappear. One walks in a 
vain shadow ; and then the surprises come ; some- 
thing, which in its familiar aspect stirs no tang- 
ible emotion, in an instant overhangs the path, 
shrouded in dim grandeur and solemn awe. 
Days of depression have this value, that they are 
apt to reveal the sublimity, the largeness of well- 
known thoughts, all veiled in a melancholy mag- 
nificence. Then, too, one gains an inkling of the 
sweetness of the warm corners, the lighted rooms 
of life, the little centre of brightness which one 



294 The Upton Letters 

can make in one's own retired heart, and which 
gives the sense of welcome, the quiet delights of 
home-keeping, the warmth of the contented mind. 
And, best of all, as one stumbles along the half- 
hidden street a shape, huge, intangible, comes 
stealing past ; one wonders what strange visitant 
this is that comes near in the gathering darkness. 
And then in a moment the vagueness is dispelled ; 
the form, the lineaments, take shape from the 
gloom, and one finds that one is face to face with 
a familiar friend, whose greeting warms the heart 
as one passes into the mist again. — Kver yours, 

T. B. 

Upton, December 5, 1904. 
My dear Herbert, — I am very sorry to hear 
you have been suffering from depression ; it is one 
of the worst evils of life, and none the better for 
being so intangible. I was reading a story the 
other day, in some old book, of a moody man who 
was walking with a friend, and, after a long si- 
lence, suddenly cried out, as if in pain. *' What 
ails you?" said his friend. " M}^ mind hurts 
me," said the other. That is the best way to look 
at it, I think — as a kind of neuralgia of the soul, 
to be treated like other neuralgias. A friend of 



The Upton Letters 295 

mine who was a great sufferer from such depres- 
sion went to an old doctor, who heard his story 
with a smile, and then said : " Now, you 're not 
as bad as you feel, or even as you think. My 
prescription is a simple one. Don't eat pastry ; 
and for a fortnight don't do anything you don't 
like." 

It is often only a kind of cramp, and needs an 
easier position. Try and get a little change; read 
novels ; don't get tired ; sit in the open air. '' A 
recumbent position," said a witty lady of my ac- 
quaintance, ** is a great aid to cheerfulness." 

I used, as you know, to be a great sufferer ; or 
perhaps you don't know, for I was too miserable 
sometimes even to speak of it. But I can say 
humbly and gratefully that a certain freedom from 
depression is one of the blessings that advancing 
years have brought me. Still, I don't altogether 
escape; and it sometimes falls with an unexpected 
suddenness. It may help you to know that other 
people suffer similarly, and how they suffer. 

Well, then, a few days ago I woke early, after 
troubled dreams, and knew that the old enemy 
had clutched me. I lay in a strange agony of 
mind, my heart beating thick, and with an insup- 
portable weight on my heart. It always takes 



296 The Upton Letters 

the same form with me — an overwhelming sense 
of failure in all that I attempt, a dreary conscious- 
ness of absolute futility, coupled with the sense of 
the brevity and misery of human life generally. I 
ask myself what is the use of anything ? What 
is an almost demoniacal feature of the mood is 
that it lays a spell of utter dreariness upon all 
pleasures as well as duties. One feels condemned 
to a long perspective of work without interest, and 
recreation without relish, and all confined and 
bounded by death ; whichever way my thoughts 
turned, a grey prospect met me. 

lyittle by little, the misery abated, recurring at 
longer and longer intervals, till at last I slept 
again; but the mood overclouded me all day long, 
and I went about my duties with indifference. 
But there is one medicine which hardl}^ ever fails 
me — it was a half-holiday, and, after tea, I went 
to the cathedral and sat in a remote corner of the 
nave. The service had just begun. The nave 
was dimly lighted, but an upward radiance 
gushed behind the screen and the tall organ, and 
lit up the vaulted roof with a tranquil glory. 
Soon the Psalms began, and at the sound of the 
clear voices of the choir, which seemed to swim 
on the melodious thunder of the organ, my spirit 



The Upton Letters 297 

leaped into peace, as a man drowning in a stormy 
sea is drawn into a boat that comes to rescue him. 
It was the fourth evening, and that wonderful 
Psalm, My God, my God, look upon me — where 
the broken spirit dives to the very depths of dark- 
ness and despair — brought me the message of 
triumphant sorrow. How strange that these sad 
cries of the heart, echoing out of the ages, set to 
rich music — it was that solemn A minor chant by 
Battishill, which you know — should be able to 
calm and uplift the grieving spirit. The thought 
rises into a burst of gladness at the end ; and then 
follows hard upon it the tenderest of all Psalms, 
The Lord is my Shepherd, in which the spirit 
casts its care upon God, and walks simply, in 
utter trust and confidence. The dreariness of 
my heart thawed and melted into peace and calm. 
Then came the solemn murmur of a lesson ; the 
Magfiificat, sung to a setting — again as by a 
thoughtful tenderness — of which I know and 
love every note ; and here my heart seemed to 
climb into a quiet hope and rest there ; the les- 
son again, like the voice of a spirit ; and then the 
Nunc Dimittis, which spoke of the beautiful 
rest that remaineth. Then the quiet monotone 
of prayer, and then, as though to complete my 



298 The Upton Letters 

happiness, Mendelssohn's Hear My Prayer. It 
is the fashion, I beheve, for some musicians to 
speak contemptuously of this anthem, to say that 
it is over-luscious. I only know that it brings all 
heaven about me, and reconciles the sadness of 
the world with the peace of God. A perfect boy's 
treble — that sweetest of all created sounds, because 
so unconscious of its pathos and beauty — floating 
on the top of the music, and singing as an angel 
might sing among the stars of heaven, came to my 
thirsty spirit like a draught of clear spring water. 
And, at the end of all, Mendelssohn's great G 
major fugue gave the note of courage and endur- 
ance that I needed, the strong notes marching 
solemnly and joyfully on their appointed way. 

I left the cathedral, through the gathering twi- 
light, peaceful, hopeful, and invigorated, as a 
cripple dipped in the healing well. While music 
is in the world, God abides among us. Ever 
since the day that David soothed Saul by his 
sweet harp and artless song, music has thus be- 
guiled the heaviness of the spirit. Yet there is 
the mystery that the emotion seems to soar so 
much higher and dive so much deeper than the 
notes that evoke it ! The best argument for 
immortality, I think. 



The Upton Letters 299 

Now that I have written so much, I feel that I 
am, perhaps inconsiderate in speaking so much 
of the healing music which you cannot obtain. 
But get your wife to play to you, in a quiet and 
darkened room, some of the things you love best. 
It is not the same as the cathedral, with all its 
glory and its ancient, dim tradition, but it will 
serve. 

And, meanwhile, think as little of your de- 
pression as you can ; it won't poison the future ; 
just endure it like a present pain ; the moment 
one can do that, the victory is almost won. 

The worst of the grim mood is that it seems to 
tear away all the pretences with which we beguile 
our sadness, and to reveal the truth. But it is 
only that truth which lies at the bottom of the 
well ; and there are fathoms of clear water lying 
above it, which are quite as true as the naked 
fact below. That is all the philosophy I can ex- 
tract from such depression, and, in some mysteri- 
ous way, it helps us, after all, when it is over ; 
makes us stronger, more patient, more compas- 
sionate and it is worth some suffering, if one lays 
hold of true experience instead of wasting time 
in querulous self-commiseration. — Affectionately 
yours, T. B. 



300 The Upton Letters 

Upton, December 12, 1904. 

My dkar Herbkrt,— I have lately been read- 
ing in a whimsical and discursive fashion — you 
know the mood — turning the pages, and yet not 
finding the repose one demands in a book. One 
thought emerges from such hours and as I can- 
not to-day write you a long letter, I will just try 
to shape my ideas in a few sentences, hoping 
that you will be able to supplement or correct 
it. 

Is not the one thing which, after all, one de- 
mands in art, personality f A perfectly sincere 
and direct point of view ? It matters little what 
the point of view is, and whether one agrees with 
it or not, so long as one is certain of its truth and 
reality. Books where there is any sense of pose, 
of affectation, of insincerity, do not ever really 
please or satisfy ; of course there are books which 
are entirely sincere which are yet so unsympa- 
thetic that one cannot get near them. But pre- 
supposing a certain sympathy of aim and ideal, 
one may disagree with, or think incomplete, or 
consider overstrained, the sincere presentment of 
some thought, but one realises it to be true and 
natural — to be there. 

Well, such a point of view holds both hope and 



The Upton Letters 3ot 

discouragement for a writer. Writers have long 
periods, I suppose, when they don't seem to have 
anything to say; or, even worse, when they have 
something to say but can't please themselves as 
to the manner of saying it. But all these delays, 
these inarticulate silences, these dumb discour- 
agements, are part, after all, of the same thing. 
It is useless to try to say anything under these 
conditions ; or, if one does contrive to express 
something, one must look upon it merely as an 
exercise in expression, a piece of training, a sort 
of gymnastic-and be content to throw the thmg 

aside. . . 

The only kind of thing that is worth saying is 
the thing that is conceived in perfect sincerity; it 
need not be original or new-sometimes. indeed, 
it is some one else's thought which touches the 
train which seems so difficult to fire. But it must 
be sincere; one's very own ; if one does not origi- 
nate it one must, at least, give it the impress of 
one's own inmost mind. 

Of course, even then the thing may not win ac- 
ceptance ; for a thought to appeal to others, a cer- 
tain sympathy must be abroad ; there must be, to 
use a musical metaphor, a certain descant or ac- 
companiment going on, into which one can drop 



302 The Upton Letters 

one's music as an organist plays a solo, which 
gives voice and individuality to some quiet, 
gliding strain. 

But the thing to remember is that the one con- 
dition of art is that the thought and the expres- 
sion must be individual and absolutely sincere. 
To be accepted matters little, if only you have 
said what is in your heart. 

Of course, many things must be combined as 
well — style, magic of word-painting, harmony, 
beauty. There are many people whose strong 
and sincere thoughts cannot be uttered, because 
they have no power of expression ; but even these 
are all personality too. 

There must be no deep and vital despondency 
in the artist's heart as to his right and power to 
speak. His duty is to gain flexibility by perse- 
verance ; and, meanwhile, to analyse, to keep his 
mind large and sympathetic, to open all the win- 
dows of his heart to the day ; not to be conven- 
tional, prejudiced, or wilful; to believe that any 
one who can see beauty or truth in a thing is 
nearer to its essence than one who can only 
criticise or despise. 

This is roughly and awkwardly put ; but I be- 
lieve it to be true. Tell me what you feel about 



The Upton Letters 303 

it ; stay me with flagons, whatever that mysteri- 
ous process may be. . . . — Ever yours, 

T. B. 



Oxford, December 23, 1904. 

My dKAR Hkrbbrt, — I came down, as soon as 
the term was over, to Oxford, where I have come 
in the way of a good deal of talk. I find that I 
become somewhat of a connoisseur in the matter 
of conversation as I grow older ; and I must also 
confess that such powers as I possess in that di- 
rection are of the tete-a-tete order. A candid 
friend of mine, a gracious lady, who wields some 
of the arts of a salon, lately took the wind out of 
my sails, on an occasion when I formed one of a 
large and rather tongue-tied party at her house. 
I had flung myself, rather strenuously, into the 
breach, and had talked with more valour than dis- 
cretion. Later in the evening, I had a little con- 
fabulation with herself, at the end of which she said 
to me, with a vaguely reminiscent air, " What a 
pity it is that you are only a tete-a-tete talker ! " 

To be a salon talker indeed, requires a certain 
self-possession, a kind of grasp of the different in- 
dividuals that surround you, which is of the na- 
ture of Napoleonic strategy. 



304 The Upton Letters 

At Oxford, one does not find much general con- 
versation. The party which meets night by night 
in Hall is too large for any diffused talk : and, 
moreover, the clink and clash of service, the 
merry chatter of the undergraduates fill the scene 
with a background of noise. There is a certain 
not unpleasant excitement, of the gambling type, 
as to who one's neighbours will be. Sometimes, 
by a dexterous stroke, one can secure one's chosen 
companion ; but it also may happen that one may 
be at the end of the row of the first detachment 
which sits down to dinner (for the table slowly 
fills), and then it is like a game of dominoes ; it is 
uncertain who may occupy one's nether flank. 
But the party is so large that there is a great 
variety. Of course, we have our drawbacks — 
what society has not ? There is the argumenta- 
tive, hair-splitting Professor, who is never happy 
unless he is landing you in a false position and 
ruthlessly demolishing it. There is the crusted 
old Don, whose boots creak, whose clothes seem 
to be made of some hard, unyielding material, 
and whose stiff collars scrape his shaven cheeks 
with a rustling noise ; he speaks rarely and 
gruffly ; he opens his mouth to insert food, and 
closes it with a snap ; but he is a humorous old 



The Upton Letters 305 

fellow, with a twinkle in his eye : generous if 
whimsical ; and more good-natured than he 
wishes 3^ou to believe. Some of my friends are 
silent and abrupt ; there is the statuesque chap- 
lain who, whatever you may talk of, appears to 
be preoccupied with something else ; there are 
brisk, bird-like men, who pick up their food and 
interject disconnected remarks. But the majority 
are lively, sensible fellows, with abundance of 
interest in life and people, and a considerable sense 
of humour ; and, after all, I think it matters very 
little what a man talks about as long as you feel 
that the talk is sincere and natural, and not a 
pose ; the only kind of talker whom I find really 
discomposing is the shy man who makes false 
starts, interrupts in order to show his sympathy, 
and then apologises for his misapprehension ; but 
this is an unknown species in a college hall. 
What one does weary of more and more every 
year is the sort of surface cackle that has to be 
indulged in in general society, simply to fill the 
time. 

But of course, in conversation, much depends 
upon what may be called luck. You may invite 
three or four of the best conversationalists you 
know to a quiet dinner ; and yet, though the 



3o6 The Upton Letters 

same party may have on some previous occasion 
played the game with agihty and zest, yet for 
some reason, on the present occasion, all may go 
heavily. You may light upon a tiresome sub- 
ject ; your most infectious humourist may be tired 
or out of temper, and the whole thing may lan- 
guish and droop ; people may misunderstand each 
other, perversely or unintenionally ; the dredge 
may bring up nothing but mud ; a contagion of 
yawning may set in, and you are lost. Again, 
some party which has been assembled from mo- 
tives of duty, and from which no species of social 
pleasure was expected, may turn out brisk, lively, 
and entertaining. 

A good party should contain, if possible, a hu- 
mourist, a sentimentalist, and a good-tempered 
butt ; the only kind of men who should be rigidly 
excluded are the busy mocker, the despiser, the 
superior person. It does not matter how much 
people disagree, if they will only admit in their 
minds that every one has a right to a point of 
view, and that their own does not necessarily rule 
out all others. I had two friends once, a husband 
and wife, who had strong political views ; the 
wife believed it probable that all radicals were 
either wicked or stupid, but it was possible to 



The Upton Letters 307 

argue the point with her ; whereas the husband 
knew that any person who, however slightly, en- 
tertained Liberal views was a fool or a knave, 
and thus argument was impossible. 

Of course, there are a very few people who have 
a genius for conversation. Such persons are not 
as a rule great talkers themselves, though they 
every now and then emit a flash of soft brilliance ; 
but they are rather the people who send every one 
else away contented ; who see the possibilities in 
every remark; who want to know what other peo- 
ple think ; and who can, by some deft sympathetic 
process which is to me very mysterious, expand 
a blunt expression of opinion into an interesting 
mental horizon, or fructify some faltering thought 
into a suggestive and affecting image. Such 
people are worth their weight in gold. Then 
there is a talker who is worth much silver, a man 
of irresistible geniality, who has a fund of pleasant 
banter for all present. This is a great art ; banter, 
to be agreeable, must be of a complimentary kind; 
it must magnify the object it deals with — a per- 
verse person may be bantered on his strength of 
character ; a stingy person may be bantered on 
his prudence. There is, indeed, a kind of banter, 
not unknown in academical circles, which takes 



3o8 The Upton Letters 

the heart out of every one by displaying them in 
a ludicrous and depreciating light ; a professor of 
this art will make out a sensitive person to be a 
coward, and a poetical man to be a sentimental 
fool ; and then the conversation, * ' like a foun- 
tain's sickening pulse, retires." 

The talker who is worth much copper is the 
good, commonplace, courteous person who keeps 
up an end and has something to say ; and these 
must be the basis of most parties — the lettuce, so 
to speak, of the salad. 

The thing to beware of is to assemble a purely 
youthful party, unless j^ou know your men well ; 
a shy, awkward young man, or a noisy, complacent 
young man, are each in their way distressing. But 
a mixture of youth and age will produce the hap- 
piest results, if only your luck does not desert you. 

After all, the essence of the thing is to have 
simple, unaffected people ; the poseur is the ruin 
of genial intercourse, unless he is a good fellow 
whose pose is harmless. Some of the best talks I 
have ever had have been in the company of sensi- 
ble and good-natured men, of no particular bril- 
liance, but with a sense of justice in the matter of 
talk and no taste for anecdote ; just as some of 
the best meals I have ever had have been of the 



The Upton Letters 309 

plainest, when good digestion waited upon ap- 
petite. And, on the other hand, some of the very- 
saddest entertainments I have ever taken a hand 
in have been those conducted by a host bubbling 
with geniality, and with a stock of reminiscences, 
who turned the hose in the face of guest after 
guest till they writhed with boredom. 

Bless me, it is midnight ! The hour is pealed 
from innumerable towers ; then comes a holy 
silence, while I hear the drip of the fountain in 
the court. This incomparable Oxford ! I wish 
that fate or Providence would turn my steps this 

way ! — Ever yours, 

T. B. 

PEI.HAM House, Hammersmith, 

December 28, 1904. 

Dear Herbert, — Since I left Oxford, I have 
been staying in town. I can't remember if you 
ever came across my old friend Hardy — Augustus 
Hardy, the art critic — at all events you will know 
whom I mean. I have been very much inter- 
ested and a good deal distressed by my visit. 
Hardy is an elderly man now, nearly sixty. He 
went through Oxford with a good deal of distinc- 
tion, and his sketches were much admired. It 
was supposed that he had only to present himself 



3IO The Upton Letters 

at the doors of the Academy, and that it would 
surrender at discretion. His family were rich, 
and Hardy went up to town to practise art. He 
was a friend of my father's, and he was very kind 
to me as a boy. He was well off, and lived in a 
pleasant house of his own in Half Moon Street. 
He was a great hero of mine in those days ; he 
had given up all idea of doing anything great as 
a painter, but turned his attention to art-criticism. 
He wrote an easy, interesting style, and he used 
to contribute to magazines on all kinds of aesthetic 
subjects ; he belonged to several clubs, dined out 
a great deal, and used to give elaborate little din- 
ners himself. He was fond of lecturing and 
speechifying generally ; and he liked the society 
of young people, young men of an intelligent and 
progressive type. He was very free with his 
money — I suppose he had nearly three thousand 
a year — and spent it in a princely kind of way ; 
when he travelled, he travelled like a great gen- 
tleman, generally took a young artist or two with 
him in whom he was interested, and whose ex- 
penses he paid. 

He was in those days an admirable talker, 
quick, suggestive, amusing, and with an indefin- 
able charm. He was then a tall, thin, active 



The Upton Letters 311 

man, with flashing eyes, a sanguine complexion, 
and a mobile face ; he wore his hair rather lux- 
uriantl}^ and had a picturesque, pointed beard. 
I shall never forget the delight of occasional visits 
to his house ; he was extraordinarily kind and 
really sympathetic, and he had with young peo- 
ple a kind of caressing deference in his manner 
that used to give one an agreeable sense of dig- 
nity. I remember that he had a very deft way of 
giving one's halting remarks a kind of twist 
which used to make it appear that one had said 
something profound and poetical. 

Well, about twenty years ago, all this came to 
an end very suddenly. Hardy lost the greater 
part of his money at one swoop ; he had inherited, 
I think, a certain share in his father's business ; 
he had one brother, older than himself, who car- 
ried the business on. Hardy never looked into 
money matters, but simply spent whatever came 
in ; the business came to grief, and Hardy found 
himself pretty considerably in debt, with a few 
hundreds a year of his own. He had, fortunately 
for himself, never married ; his friends came to 
his assistance, and arranged matters as comfort- 
ably as possible. Hardy settled in an old house 
in Hammersmith, and has lived there ever since. 



312 The Upton Letters 

He belonged to several clubs ; but he resigned his 
membership of all but one, where he now prac- 
tically spends his day, and having been always 
accustomed to have his own way, and dominate 
the societies in which he found himself, took it 
for granted that he would be the chief person 
there. He was always an egoist, but his position, 
his generosity, and his own charm had rather 
tended to conceal the fact. 

Well, he has found every one against him in 
his adversity, and has suffered from all the petty 
intrigues of a small and rather narrow-minded 
society. His suggestions have been scouted, he 
has been pointedly excluded from all share in the 
management of the club, and treated with scanty 
civility. I don't suppose that all this has given 
him as much pain as one would imagine, because 
he has all the impenetrability and want of percep- 
tion of the real egoist. I am told that he used to 
be treated at one time in the club with indiffer- 
ence, hostility, and even brutality. But he is not 
a man to be suppressed — he works hard, writes 
reviews, articles, and books, and pays elaborate 
civilities to all new members. I have only seen 
him at long intervals of late years ; but he has 
stayed with me once or twice, and has often 



The Upton Letters 3^3 

pressed me to go and see him in town. I had 
some business to attend there this Christmas, and I 
proposed m3^self. He wrote a letter of cordial wel- 
come, and I have now been his guest for four days. 
I can't express to you the poignant distress 
which my visit has caused me ; not exactly a 
personal distress, for Hardy is not a man to be 
directly pitied ; but the pathos of the whole thing 
is very great. His house has large and beautiful 
rooms, and I recognised many of the little treas- 
ures — portraits, engravings, statuettes, busts, and 
books — which used to adorn the house in Half 
Moon Street. But the man himself! He has 
altered very little in personal appearance. He 
still moves briskly, and, except that his hair is 
nearly white, I could imagine him to be the same 
hero that I used to worship. But his egoism has 
grown upon him to such an extent that his mind 
is hardly recognisable. He still talks brilliantly 
and suggestively at times ; and I find myself 
every now and then amazed by some stroke of 
genius in his talk, some familiar thing shown in 
a new and interesting light, some ray of poetry or 
emotion thrown on to some dusty and well-known 
subject. But he has become a man of grievances ; 
he still has, at the beginning of a talk, some of 



314 The Upton Letters 

the fine charm of S3^mpathy. He will begin by 
saying that he wants to know what one thinks of 
a point, and he will smile in the old affectionate 
kind of way, as one might smile at a favourite 
child ; but he will then plunge into a fiery mono- 
logue about his ambitions and his work. He de- 
claims away, with magnificent gestures. He still 
interlards his talk with personal appeals for ap- 
probation, for concurrence, for encouragement ; 
but it is clear he does not expect an answer, and 
his demands for sympathy have little more per- 
sonal value than the reiterated statement in the 
Ivitany that we are miserable sinners has in the 
mouth of many respectable church-goers. 

The result is that I find myself greatly fatigued 
by my visit. I have spent several hours of every 
day in his society, and I do not suppose that I 
have uttered a dozen consecutive words ; yet 
many of his statements would be well worth dis- 
cussing, if he were capable of discussion. 

The burden of his song is the lack of that due 
recognition which he ought to receive ; and this, 
paradoxical as it may appear, is combined with 
an intense and childish complacency in his own 
greatness, his position, his influence, his literary 
and artistic achievements. 



The Upton Letters 315 

He seems to live a very lonely life, though a 
full one ; every hour of his day is methodically 
mapped out. He has a large correspondence, he 
reads the papers diligently, he talks, he writes ; 
but he seems to have no friends and no associates. 
His criticisms upon art, which are suggestive 
enough, are regarded with undisguised contempt 
by professional critics ; and I find that they are 
held to be vitiated by a certain want of balance 
and proportion, and a whimsical eclecticism of 
taste. 

But the pathos of the situation is not the opinion 
which is held of him, for he is wholly unconscious 
of it, and he makes up for any lack of expressed 
approbation by the earnest and admiring approval 
of all he does, which he himself liberally supplies. 
It is rather a gnawing hunger of the soul from 
which he seems to suffer ; he has a simply bound- 
less appetite for the poor thing which he calls 
recognition — I shudder to think how often I have 
heard the word on his lips — and his own self- 
approbation is like a drug which he administers 
to still some fretting pain. 

He has been telling me to-night a long story of 
machinations against him in the club ; the per- 
spicuity with which he detected them, the odious 



3i6 The Upton Letters 

repartees he made, the effective counter-checks he 
applied. *' I was always a combatant," he says, 
with a leering gaiety. Then the next moment he 
is girding at the whole crew for their stupidity, 
their ingratitude, their malignity ; and it never 
seems to cross his mind that he can be, or has 
been in the smallest degree, to blame. It dis- 
tressed me profoundly, and my mind and heart 
seemed to weep silent tears. 

If he had shown tact, prudence, diligence, if he 
could have held his tongue when he first took a 
different place, he would have had a circle of 
many friends by now. Instead of this, I find him 
barely tolerated. He talks — he has plenty of 
courage, and no idea of being put down — but he 
is listened to with ill-concealed weariness, and, 
at best, with polite indifference. Yet every now 
and then the old spell falls on me, and I realivSe 
what a noble mind is overthrown. He ought to 
be at this time the centre of a set of attached 
friends, a man spoken of with reverence, believed 
in, revisited by grateful admirers — a man whom 
it would be an honour and a delight to a young 
man to know ; and the setting in which he lives 
is precisely adapted to this r61e. Instead of which 
it may safely be said that, if he were to announce 



The Upton Letters 317 

his departure from town, it would be received 
with general and cordial satisfaction by his fellow- 
clubmen. 

Even if he had not his circle, he might live a 
quiet, tranquil, and laborious life in surroundings 
which are simple and yet dignified. 

But the poison is in his system, and it afflicts 
me to think in how many systems the same 
poison is at work nowadays. One sees the 
frankest form of it in the desire of third-rate peo- 
ple to amass letters after their names ; but, putting 
aside all mere vulgar manifestations of it, how 
many of us are content to do good, solid, beautiful 
work unpraised, unsung, unheeded ? I will take 
my own case, and frankly confess that what is 
called recognition is a pleasure to me. I like to 
have work, which I have done with energy, enjoy- 
ment, and diligence, praised — I hope because it 
confirms the verdict of my own mind that it has 
been faithfully done. But I can also sincerely 
say that, as iar as literary work goes, the chief 
pleasure lies in the doing of it ; and I could write 
with unabated zest even if there were no question 
of publication in view — at least, I think so, but 
one does not know oneself 

In any event, the contemplation of poor Hardy's 



3i8 The Upton Letters 

case is a terrible lesson to one not to let the desire 
for praise get too strong a hold, or, at all events, 
to be deliberately on one's guard against it. 

But the pathos and sadness, after all, remain. 
* * Healing is well, ' ' says the poet, * ' but wherefore 
wounds to heal?" and I find myself lost in a 
miserable wonder under what law it is that the 
Creator can mould so fine a spirit, endow it with 
such splendid qualities, and then allow some 
creeping fault to obscure it gradually, as the 
shadow creeps over the moon, and to plunge it 
into disastrous and dishonourable eclipse. 

But I grow tedious ; I am inoculated by Hardy's 
fault. I hastily close this letter, with all friendly 
greetings. " Pray accept a blessing ! " as little 
Miss Flite said, I am going down to my sister's 
to-morrow. — Kver yours, /J^ -g 

SiBTHORPE Vicarage, Wei,i.s, 

December 31, 1904 (and January i, 1905). 

Dkar Hkrbkrt, — It is nearly midnight, and I 
am sitting alone in my room, by the deathbed of 
the Old Year, expecting every moment to hear the 
bells break out proclaiming the birth of the New. 
It is a clear, still night, and I can see, beyond the 
lawn and over the shrubs of the Vicarage garden, 



The Upton Letters 319 

by the light of a low moon, entangled in cloud, 
the high elms, the church tower, with a light in 
the belfry, like a solemn, cheerful eye, and the 
roofs of the little village, all in a patient, musing 
slumber. Everything is unutterably fresh, tran- 
quil, and serene. By day, it is a commonplace 
scene enough, with a sense of little work-a-day 
cares and businesses about it all ; but now, at 
night, it is all dim and rich and romantic, full 
of a calm mystery, hushed and secret, dreaming 
contented dreams. 

I have had an almost solitary day, except for 
meals. I like being here in a way ; there is no 
strain about it. That is the best of blood-relation- 
ship ; there is no need to entertain or to be 
entertained. My brotherin-law, Charles, is an 
excellent fellow, full to the brim of small plans 
and designs for his parish ; my sister is a very 
simple and unworldly person, entirely devoted to 
her husband and children. My nephew and 
nieces, four in number, do not, I regret to say, 
interest me very deeply; they are amiable, 
healthy children, with a confined horizon, rather 
stolid ; they never seem to quarrel or to have 
any particular preferences. The boy, who is 
the youngest, is to come to my house at Upton 



320 The Upton Letters 

when he is old enough ; but at present I am 
simply a good-natured uncle to the children, 
whose arrival and whose gifts make a pleasant 
little excitement. Our talk is purely local, and 
I make it my business to be interested. It is all 
certainly very restful. Sometimes — as a rule, in 
fact — when I stay in other people's houses, I have 
a sense of effort ; I feel dimly that a certain 
brightness is expected of me ; as I dress in the 
morning, I wonder what we shall talk about, and 
what on earth I shall do between breakfast and 
lunch. But here I have a fire in my bedroom all 
day, and for the first time, I am permitted to 
smoke there. I read and write all the morning ; 
I walk, generally alone, in the afternoon. I 
write before dinner. The result is that I am per- 
fectly content. I sleep like a top ; and I find my- 
self full of ideas. The comfort of the whole thing 
is that no one is afraid that I am not amused, and 
I myself do not have the uneasy sense that I am 
bound, so to speak, to pay for my entertainment 
by being brisk, lively, or sympathetic. The im- 
mediate consequence is, that I get as near to 
all three qualities as I ever get. We simply live 
our own lives quietly, in company. My pres- 
ence gives a little fillip to the proceedings ; and I 



The Upton Letters 321 

myself get all the benefit of change of scene, to- 
gether with simple unexhausting companionship. 

Hark ! it is midnight ! The soft murmur of 
bells rises on the clear air, toppling over in a 
sweet cascade of sound, bringing hope and peace 
to the heart. In the attic above, I hear the child- 
ren moving softly about, and catch the echo of 
young voices. They are supposed to be asleep, 
but I gather that they have been under a vow to 
keep awake in turn, the watcher to rouse the 
others just before midnight. The bells peal on, 
coming in faint gusts of sound, now loud, now 
low. 

I suppose if I were more simple-minded I 
should have been thinking over my faults and 
failures, desiring to do better, making good reso- 
lutions. But I don't do that. I do desire, with 
all my heart, to do better. I know how^ faltering, 
how near the ground my flight is. But these 
formal, occasional repentances are useless things ; 
resolutions do little but reveal one's weakness 
more patently. What I try to do is simply to 
uplift my heart with all its hopes and weaknesses 
to God, to try to put my hand in His, to pray that 
I may use the chance He gives me, and interpret 
the sorrows He may send me. He knows me 



322 The Upton Letters 

utterly and entirely, my faults and my strength. 
I cannot fly from Him though I take the wings 
of the morning. I only pray that I may not 
harden my heart ; that I may be sought and 
found ; that I may have the courage I need. All 
that I have of good He has given me ; and as for 
the evil, He knows best why I am tempted, why 
I fall, though I would not. There is no strength 
like the abasement of weakness ; no power like a 
childlike confidence. One thing only I shall do 
before I sleep — give a thought to all I love and 
hold dear, my kin, my friends, and most of all, 
my boys: I shall remember each, and, while I com- 
mend them to the keeping of God, I shall pray 
that they may not suffer through any neglect or 
carelessness of my own. It is not, after all, a 
question of the quantity of what we do, but of the 
quality of it. God knows, and I know of how 
poor stuff our dreams and deeds are woven ; but 
if it is the best we can give, if we desire with all 
our hearts what is noble and pure and beautiful 
and true — or even desire to desire it — He will ac- 
cept the will and purify the deed. And in such a 
mood as this — and God forgive us for not more 
often dwelling in such thoughts — I can hope 
and feel that the most tragic failure, the darkest 



The Upton Letters 323 

sorrow, the deepest shame are viewed by God, and 
will some day be viewed by ourselves, in a light 
which will make all things new ; and that just as 
we look back on our childish griefs with a smiling 
wonder, so we shall some day look back on our 
mature and dreary sufferings with a tender and 
wistful air, marvelling that we could be so short- 
sighted, so faithless, so blind. 

And yet the thought of what the new year may 
hold for us cannot be other than solemn. I^ike 
men on the eve of a great voyage, we know not 
what may be in store, what shifting of scene, what 
loss, what grief, what shadow of death. And 
then, again, the same grave peace flows in upon 
the mind, as the bells ring out their sweet re- 
frain, " It is He that hath made us." Can we 
not rest in that ? 

What I hope more and more to do is to with- 
draw myself from material aims and desires ; not 
to aim at success, or dignity of office, or parade 
of place. I wish to help, to serve, not to com- 
mand or rule. I long to write a beautiful book, 
to put into words something of the sense of peace, 
of beauty and mystery, which visits me from time 
to time. Every one has, I think, something of the 
heavenly treasure in his heart, something that 



324 The Upton Letters 

makes him glad, that makes him smile when 
he is alone ; I want to share that with others, 
not to keep it to myself. I drift, alas, upon an 
unknown sea, but sometimes I see, across the blue 
rollers, the cliffs and shores of an unknown land, 
perfectly and impossibly beautiful. Sometimes 
the current bears me away from it ; sometimes it 
is veiled in cloud-drift and weeping rain. But 
there are days when the sun shines bright upon 
the leaping waves, and the wind fills the sail and 
bears me thither. It is of that beautiful land that 
I would speak, its pure outlines, its crag-hollows, 
its rolling downs. Tendimiis ad Latium^ we steer 
to the land of hope. 

And, meanwhile, I desire but to work in a 
corner ; to make the few lives that touch my own 
a little happier and braver; to give of my best, to 
withhold what is base and poor. There is abun- 
dance of evil, of weakness, of ugliness, of dreari- 
ness in my own heart ; I only pray that I may 
keep it there, not let it escape, nor let it flow into 
other lives. 

The great danger of all natures like my own, 
which have a touch of what is, I suppose, the 
artistic temperament, is a certain hardness, a self- 
centred egotism, a want of lovingness and sym- 



The Upton Letters 325 

pathy. One sees things so clearly, one hankers 
so after the power of translating and expressing 
emotion and beauty, that the danger is of losing 
proportion, of subordinating everything to the 
personal value of experience. From this danger, 
which is only too plain to me, I humbly desire to 
escape ; it is all the more dangerous when one 
has the power, as I am aware I have, of entering 
swiftly and easily into intimate personal relations 
with people ; one is so apt, in the pleasure of ob- 
serving, of classifying, of scrutinising varieties of 
temperament, to use that power only to please 
and amuse oneself. What one ought to aim at is 
not the establishment of personal influence, not 
the perverted sense of power which the conscious- 
ness of a hold over other lives gives one, but to 
share such good things as one possesses, to assist 
rather than to sway. 

Well, it is all in the hands of God ; again and 
again one returns to that, as the bird after its 
flight in remote fields returns to the familiar tree, 
the branching fastness. One should learn, I am 
sure, to live for the day and in the day not to lose 
oneself in anxieties and schemes and aims ; not 
to be overshadowed by distant terrors and far-off 
hopes, but to say, " To-day is given me for my 



326 The Upton Letters 

own ; let me use it, let me live in it." One's im- 
mediate duty is happily, as a rule, clear enough. 
" Do the next thing," says the old shrewd motto. 

The bells cease in the tower, leaving a satisfied 
stillness. The fire winks and rustles in the grate ; 
a faint wind shivers and rustles down the garden 
paths, sighing for the dawn. I grow weary. 

Herbert, I must say "Good-night." God keep 
and guard you, my old and true friend. I have 
rejoiced week by week to hear of your recovered 
health, your activity, 3^our renewed zest in life. 
When shall I welcome you back ? I feel some- 
how that in these months of separation we have 
grown much nearer and closer together. We 
have been able to speak in our letters in a way 
that we have seldom been able to speak eye to 
eye. There is a pure gain. My heart goes out 
to you and yours; and at this moment I feel as if 
the dividing seas are nothing, and that we are 
close together in the great and loving heart of 
God.— Your ever affectionate, ^ 

SiBTHORPE ViCARAGK, WEI.I.S, 

January 7, 1905. 

Dkar Herbert, — Four nights ago I dreamed 
a strange dream. I was in a big, well-furnished, 



The Upton Letters 327 

airy room, with people moving about in it ; I 
knew none of them, but we were on friendly 
terms, and talked and laughed together. Quite 
suddenly I was struck somewhere in the chest by 
some rough, large missile, fired, I thought, from 
a gun, though I heard no explosion ; it pierced 
my ribs, and buried itself, I felt, in some vital 
part. I stumbled to a couch and fell upon it ; 
some one came to raise me, and I was aware that 
other persons ran hither and thither seeking, I 
thought, for medical aid and remedies. I knew 
within myself that my last hour had come ; I was 
not in pain, but life and strength ebbed from me 
by swift degrees. I felt an intolerable sense of 
indignity in my helplessness, and an intense de- 
sire to be left alone that I might die in peace ; 
death came fast upon me with clouded brain and 
fluttering breath. . . . 

SiBTHORPE ViCARAGB, WEIvLS, 

January 7, 1905. 

Dkar NKiviyiK, — I have just opened your letter, 
and you will know how mj^ whole heart goes out 
to you. I cannot understand it, I cannot realise 
it ; and I would give anything to be able to say a 
word that should bring you any comfort or help. 



328 The Upton Letters 

God keep and sustain you, as I know He can 
sustain in these dark hours. I cannot write more 
to-day ; but I send you the letter that I was writ- 
ing, when your own letter came. It helps me 
even now to think that my dear Herbert told me 
himself — for that, I see, was the purpose of my 
dim dream — what was befalling him. And I am 
as sure as I can be of anything that he is with us, 
with you, still. Dear friend, if I could only be 
with you now ; but you will know that my 
thoughts and prayers are with you every moment. 

— Ever your affectionate, 

T. B. 

\I add an extract from my Diary. — T. B.] 

Diary, January i^th. — A week ago, while I 
was writing the above unfinished lines, I received 
a letter to say that my friend Herbert was dead — 
he to whom these letters have been written. It 
seems that he had been getting, to all appear- 
ances, better; that he had had no renewed threat- 
enings of the complaint that had made him an 
exile. But, rising from his chair in the course 
of the evening, he had cried out faintly ; put 
his hand to his breast ; fallen back in his chair 
unconscious, and, in a few minutes, had ceased 



The Upton Letters 329 

to breathe. They say it was a sudden heart- 
failure. 

It is as though we had been watching by a bur- 
row with all precaution that some little hunted 
creature should not escape, and that, while we 
w^atched and devised, it had slipped off by some 
other outlet the very existence of which we had 
not suspected. 

Of course, as tar as he himself is concerned, 
such a death is simply a piece of good fortune. 
If I could know that such would be the manner 
of my own death, a real weight would be lifted 
from my mind. To die quickly and suddenly, in 
all the activity of life, in comparative tranquillity, 
with none of the hideous apparatus of the sick- 
room about one, with no dreary waiting for death, 
that is a great joy. But for his wife and his poor 
girls ! To have had no last word, no conscious 
look from one whose delicate consideration for 
others was so marked a part of his nature, this is 
a terrible and stupefying misery. 

I cannot, of course, even dimly realise what 
has happened ; the remoteness of it all, the know- 
ledge that my own outer life is absolutely un- 
changed, that the days will flow on as usual, 
makes it trebly difi&cult to feel what has befallen 



S30 The Upton Letters 

me. I cannot think of him as dead and silent ; 
yet even before I heard the news, he was buried. 
I cannot, of course, help feeling that the strug- 
gling spirit of my friend tried to fling me, as it 
were, some last message ; or that I suffered with 
him, and shared his last conscious thought. 

Perhaps I shall grow to think of Herbert as 
dead. But, meanwhile, I am preoccupied with 
one thought, that such an event ought not to 
come upon one as such a stunning and trembling 
shock as it does. It reveals to one the fact of 
how incomplete one's philosophy of life is. One 
ought, I feel, deliberately to reckon with death, 
and to discount it. It is, after all, the only cer- 
tain future event in our lives. 

And yet we struggle with it, put it away from 
us, live and plan as though it had no existence ; 
or, if it insistently clouds our thoughts, as it does 
at intervals, we wait resignedly until the darkness 
lifts, and until we may resume our vivid interests 
again. 

I do not, of course, mean that it should be a 
steady, melancholy preoccupation. If we have to 
die, w^e are also meant to live ; but we ought to 
combine and co-ordinate the thought of it. It 
ought to take its place among the other great cer- 



The Upton Letters 331 

tainties of life, without weakening our hold upon 
the activity of existence. How is this possible ? 
For the very terror of death lies not in the sad 
accidents of mortality, the stiffened and corrupt- 
ing form, the dim eye, the dreadful pageantry — 
over that we can triumph; but it is the blank 
cessation of all that we know of life, the silence 
of the mind that loved us, the irreparable wound. 

Some turn hungrily to Spiritualism to escape 
from this terrible mystery. But, so far as I have 
looked into Spiritualism, it seems to me only to 
have proved that, if any communication has ever 
been made from beyond the gate of death — and 
even such supposed phenomena are inextricably 
intertwined with quackeries and deceits— it is an 
abnormal and not a normal thing. The scientific 
evidence for the continuance of personal identity 
is nil ; the only hope lies in the earnest desire 
of the hungering heart. 

The spirit cries out that it dare not, it cannot 
cease to be. It cannot bear the thought of all the 
energy and activity of life proceeding in its accus- 
tomed course, deeds being done, words being 
uttered, the problems which the mind pondered 
being solved, the hopes which the heart cherished 
being realised — *'and I not there." It is a 



332 The Upton Letters 

ghastly obsession to think of all the things that 
one has loved best — quiet work, the sunset on 
familiar fields, well-known rooms, dear books, 
happy talk, fireside intercourse — and one's own 
place vacant, one's possessions dispersed among 
careless hands, eye and ear and voice sealed and 
dumb. And yet how strange it is that we should 
feel thus about the future, experience this dumb 
resentment at the thought that there should be a 
future in which one may bear no part, while we 
acquiesce so serenely in claiming no share in the 
great past of the world that enacted itself before 
we came into being. It never occurs to us to 
feel wronged because we had no conscious out- 
look upon the things that have been ; why should 
we feel so unjustly used because our outlook may 
be closed upon the things that shall be hereafter ? 
Why should we feel that the future somehow be- 
longs to us, while we have no claim upon the 
past ? It is a strange and bewildering mystery ; 
but the fact that the whole of our nature cries out 
against extinction is the strongest argument that 
we shall yet be, for why put so intensely strong 
an instinct in the heart unless it is meant to be 
somehow satisfied ? 

Only one thought, and that a stern one, can 



The Upton Letters 333 

help us — and that is the certainty that we are in 
stronger hands than our own. The sense of free- 
will, the consciousness of the possibility of effort, 
blinds us to this ; we tend to mistake the ebul- 
lience of temperament for the deliberate choice of 
the will. Yet have we any choice at all ? Science 
says no ; while the mind, with no less instinctive 
certainty, cries out that we have a choice. Yet 
take some sharp crisis of life — say an overwhelm- 
ing temptation. If we resist it, what is it but a 
resultant of many forces? Experience of past 
failures and past resolves combine with trivial and 
momentary motives to make us choose to resist. 
If we fail and yield, the motive is not strong 
enough. Yet we have the sense that we might 
have done differentlj^ : we blame ourselves, and 
not the past which made us ourselves. 

But with death it is different. Here, if ever, 
falls the fiat of the Mind that bade us be. And 
thus the only way in which we can approach it is 
to put ourselves in dependence upon that Spirit. 
And the only course we can follow is this : not by 
endeavouring to anticipate in thought the mo- 
ment of our end — that, perhaps, only adds to its 
terrors when it comes — but by resolutely and ten- 
derly, d£:y after day, learning to commend our- 



334 The Upton Letters 

selves to the hand of God ; to make what efforts 
we can ; to do our best ; to decide as simply and 
sincerely as possible what our path should be, and 
then to leave the issue humbly and quietly with 
God, 

I do this, a little ; it brings with it a wonderful 
tranquillity and peace. And the strange thing is 
that one does not do it oftener, when one has so 
often experienced its healing and strengthening 
power. 

To live then thus : not to cherish far-off designs, 
or to plan life too eagerly; but to do what is given 
us to do as carefully as we can ; to follow intui- 
tions; to take gratefully the joys of life ; to take 
its pains hopefully, always turning our hearts to 
the great and merciful Heart above us, which a 
thousand times over turns out to be more tender 
and pitiful than we had dared to hope. How far 
I am from this faith. And yet I see clearly that 
it is the only power that can sustain. For in 
such a moment of insight, even the thought of 
the empty chair, the closed books, the disused 
pen, the sorrowing hearts, and the flower-strewn 
mound fail to blur the clear mirror of the mind. 

For him there can be but two alternatives : 
either the spirit that we knew has lost the indi- 



The Upton Letters 335 

viduality that we knew and is merged again in 
the great vital force from which it was for a while 
separated ; or else, under some conditions that we 
cannot dream of, the identity remains, free from 
the dreary material conditions, free to be what it 
desired to be ; knowing perhaps the central peace 
which we know only by subtle emanations ; seeing 
the region in which beauty, and truth, and purity, 
and justice, and high hopes, and virtue are at 
one ; no longer baffled by delay, and drooping 
languor, and sad forebodings, but free and pure 
as viewless air. 



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